


Century

by macrauchenia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Family, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, POV Scott McCall, Sciles, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott and Stiles are Brothers, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macrauchenia/pseuds/macrauchenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott has known Stiles for one hundred years. A century.<br/>[An Exploration of the Friendship of Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Century

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing except my blood, sweat, and many, many tears.
> 
> Author's Note: Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. This is my child for this fandom. I am absolutely desperate for feedback, because I feel like I poured my entire soul into expressing one of the most beautiful relationships ever to be beheld. Like, I'm so emotionally drained that I started sobbing during the editing process. I'm that pathetic. Thank you guys so much for being such amazing readers of my other two stories. I really hope you enjoy this.
> 
> Notes About This Fic: First of all, warnings for obvious character deaths throughout the story, because not everyone lives to be a hundred years old plus or minus their age at the beginning of the story. You guys will see what I mean, but just letting you know. Also, the story begins when Scott and Stiles are four years old. That's Year 0. Everything that follows is pretty simple, but let me know if you are curious about the specific age or whatever. An easy way to keep track is add four years to the "Year" number to get the age.

**Year 0**

He doesn't quite understand yet and he's too young to know that he will later. For now, all he knows is that he has to wait for Mommy to finish working because Daddy can't pick him up right now.

Scott shifts on the hard plastic chair, trying to get more comfortable. He wants to explore the huge, white building in a game of one-sided hide and seek, but Mommy explicitly told him he had to stay seated, safe in the crosshairs of the sight of the nice lady at the front desk and the view of the security cameras. If he doesn't, he won't get ice cream that night for desert.

So he suffers silently, exhibiting a brilliant patience that impresses the countless hospital patrons as they pass in and out of the waiting room. He watches them until his leaden eyelids drop, lulled to sleep by the hushed conversations and worried, rhythmic pacing.

When he wakes up, the waiting room is quiet and empty. Scott glances at the clock, but the act is only a learned imitation of Mommy when Daddy doesn't come home by dinner time. He has yet to grasp the concept of measured time. Seconds, minutes, hours. He only knows that he's more sore than he was before and the windows outside are black.

There's a boy sitting on the other side of the room. Scott watches him until the boy's outline gradually breaks free from the faceless blur of the other patients. He looks like Scott, but his tiny hands are curled into trembling fists.

Scott knows he's risking ice cream, but he's curious about this boy, sitting alone—just like him. Glancing hesitantly at the distracted desk manager (it's no longer the same nice lady who smiled; it's a pale, nervous man), Scott carefully slips out of the line of sight.

He doesn't sit down next to the boy. Instead, he stands in the boy's shadow, crossing his arms in another imitation of his mother. The boy keeps his gaze fixed on Scott's ratty tennis shoes with the laces undone.

"My name is Scott."

The boy tilts his face up slowly, absorbing each and every detail about Scott with an uncanny focus. Now that he's closer, Scott notices water on the boy's dirty face. He doesn't respond, but the boy's dark, red-rimmed eyes remain fixed on Scott's face.

Mommy taught him manners, so he doesn't ask why the boy is crying. However, he doesn't see a problem with inquiring about the boy's reason for being at the hospital.

The boy hesitates before answering. "My mom's here."

Scott brightens. "Does she work with my mommy?" The possibility of a new friend means someone to play with while Mommy works.

"She's sick," the boy whispers back in a voice so soft that Scott almost misses it.

"Oh."

Scott falls silent, wondering what to say next. His mother's warning about talking to strangers goes unheeded in the back of his mind.

"Will she get better?" Scott knows that sometimes things get better and sometimes they don't. His puppy got better, but his goldfish didn't. He still has his puppy, but Mommy took away his goldfish. He doesn't know where it went.

"She'll get better," the boy responds so fiercely that Scott takes a startled step backwards. The boy's eyes flare before he ducks his head back down, resuming his careful studying of Scott's untied laces.

Scott doesn't have the chance to respond, because Mommy is shouting his name. He looks back towards the information desk to see the man lower the phone with a relieved sigh. Within seconds, his mother's warm arms encircle him.

"I thought I told you not to wander off, Scotty," she breathes into his hair. Then she notices the other boy and a sad smile flickers across her lips.

"Hey, kiddo. Your dad is just about done." She unwraps her arms around Scott to ruffle the boy's messy hair.

Scott watches with a suspicious stare as his mother rubs the boy's arm again. He smiles faintly at the kind gesture, which only further deepens Scott's distrustful scowl.

"Now, it's time for  _us_  to go home." Oblivious to his frown, Mommy smiles back at him and pats his head.

As she goes to fetch her purse, Scott's eyes flick back to the boy, who is already pulling himself back into a huddled ball.

"You can't have my mommy," Scott states matter-of-factly. "She's  _mine_." He crosses his arms again and turns to leave.

"Mine'll get better," the boy repeats to Scott's back, more so for his own benefit than for Scott's residual pout.

Scott glances back at the boy before running to the door. He catches his mother's hand and squeezes it as they leave the waiting room.

She doesn't mention the ice cream. He soon forgets as well.

* * *

**Year 1**

Mommy teaches him more about death. Death doesn't always happen to pets. It happens to people too. She describes it as someone sick or old going to sleep and never waking up again. Death is like a permanent nap. When people die, they don't stay in their beds, she tells him. They sometimes get put in the ground.

Scott doesn't understand why exactly. Maybe it's more quiet underground, so they can sleep better.

She explains this while they stand in front of a large polished slab of granite. There's squiggles and curves on the rock, which Scott knows to be letters and numbers. He picks out a few sight words that he recognizes, but many of the phrases are too long for him to sound out.

Mommy tells him about  _her_  mommy and how Scott met her once when he was very, very young. He doesn't quite remember, but he senses that Mommy is sad, so he pretends to nod. He grabs her hand and smiles when she squeezes back.

Scott wonders why people don't wake back up from their naps. After Scott naps in his kindergarten class, he feels wide-awake. If his grandmother has been sleeping for several years, she should easily be able to wake up and be  _really_  refreshed. He also wonders how people will know she's awake after she's been sleeping so far deep in the ground this whole time.

When Scott asks about this, Mommy simply smooths down his ruffled hair and kisses his forehead. She starts to use a different explanation but stops, deciding to wait for another day.

When his mother goes to get the car, Scott looks around at the cemetery, counting the various blocks of granite and marble with his fingers until he loses count. He turns to the left and stops mid-number. A large group of people dressed in black catches his attention. Although he knows he should stay put by his grandmother's grave, Scott is curious about these other people. Especially since many are dressed up in matching uniforms with fancy belts.

He carefully tiptoes around each decorated plot as he gets closer, mostly because he doesn't want to wake anyone up prematurely. He can hear music and another man talking in a slow voice. People are crying and everyone looks really sad. Scott frowns, confused by the reactions.

_Don't they know the person's just napping?_

As Scott gets closer, he notices a boy his age standing beside one of the uniformed men. The boy doesn't look sad, but he doesn't look particularly happy either. Scott crouches behind a tombstone, studying him.

The boy's blank gaze wanders over the headstones to land on Scott. Immediately he straightens up and Scott prepares his tiny muscles to run away. He waits for the boy to shout at him, but instead he tugs on the man's sleeve next to him, whispering something to the man when he bends down. The boy disappears in the mourning crowd. Scott frowns, trying to figure out where he went.

"What are you doing?"

Scott jumps and crashes into the granite slab in front of him. He turns towards the boy behind him with an affronted pout.

"You scared me!" he accuses, trying to calm his nervous breathing.

"What are you doing?" the boy repeats, watching him with curious brown eyes. He tilts his head, blinking twice in a quick succession.

Scott glances over the boy's shoulder to where his grandmother is sleeping. Mommy still hasn't come back yet, so he can stay for a few more minutes. The boy turns and follows his gaze. His brown eyes settle heavily on the recently visited grave and the tiny bouquet of flowers.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

It's Scott's turn to blink. "For what?" He doesn't understand why this boy is sorry.

"Because—" the boy starts to explain, but he gives up and shrugs. Apparently, he is about as knowledgeable as Scott is on the matter. He quickly changes the subject.

"Do you know what a," the boy pauses for a moment to gather the letters together in his mouth, "masoleuuum is?"

Scott shakes his head. He can honestly say he's never heard of the strange term before.

"It's where they put dead people," the boy continues matter-of-factly. "When people are really rich, they get put in these little rock houses."

"I saw one of those on our way here," Scott adds brightly. He hadn't bothered to ask Mommy what they were, assuming they were just another place for dead people to sleep.

"Really?" The boy's brown eyes light up. "Can you show me?"

"Yeah," Scott nods, waving in the general direction of where he last saw the crypt. "Over here."

Since the other boy is in a tight suit, they both agree to walk to the mausoleum. This relieves Scott greatly, because the other boy looks devastatingly faster, but he doesn't state that observation out loud.

Along the way, the boy chatters about a movie he saw when his parents were asleep. It had big, tough hunters and a scary vampire that drank everyone's blood. According to the boy, the vampire was only killed when the hunters trapped it and stabbed it with a wooden stick.

"I don't know why it was afraid of wood," the boy rambles one, "but maybe we can find a vampire in the masoleuuum."

Scott is quite content to simply listen to the boy gush on and on about monsters, but the prospect of actually finding a real vampire causes him to pause.

"Do you think vampires are real?" Scott hesitates, shifting from foot to foot.

"Sure," he shrugs. "Why not?"

Scott still doesn't budge. "We aren't hunters though."

The formally dressed boy glances over his shoulder and waits for his new friend to gather his courage and catch up. When he doesn't, the boy sighs and frowns. However, he doesn't abandon Scott. He thinks for a moment before his eyes light up again. "I'll be right back," he promises, turning around and dashing away. Scott waits for a few moments before he comes back, holding two sticks. He gives the pointier one to Scott, assuring him that these can kill any vampire.

With that infallible logic, Scott resumes leading them towards the mausoleum.

Unfortunately, they never quite reach the crypt. Scott's companion is interrupted midsentence by frantic shouting. Scott looks back towards the sound and sees his mother hurrying towards him. At about the same time, the uniformed man from earlier rushes towards them and a relieved, yet irritated smile flickers across his face at the sight of the uninjured boys.

"John?" Scott's mother stumbles to a stop, finally realizing who her son's new companion is.

"Melissa?"

"Oh God. I am so sorry if Scott caused you any trouble, Deputy."

The man eyes his son before sighing good-naturedly. "In all honesty, it's probably me who should be apologizing."

Scott tries not to look guilty when Mommy looks at him. His mother squats in front of him, staring at him with a single eyebrow lifted. "Scottie, sweetheart… Why did you wander off?"

"We were looking for the," he glances towards his new friend, "uh…"

"Masoleuuum," the other boy supplies.

"Masoleuuum?" Mommy echoes.

"It's where the vampires live."

"Ahh…"

Stilinski groans. "I thought you said you had to go to the bathroom." He reaches to ruffle his son's hair but stops, instead resting his large palm on the boy's carefully gelled hair. It took far too much patience to get it into its orderly state to ruin with a fond gesture.

Scott's companion smiles sheepishly, but neither confirms nor denies the man's accusation.

His mother apologizes one last time before dragging Scott back towards the car, reprimanding him about the dangers of wandering off during the entire walk back.

Scott still has the stick clutched tightly in his hands and he picks at the mottled bark the entire way home. He wants to be ready just in case a vampire comes.

* * *

**Year 2**

Today his teacher announces that a new student will be joining them. Scott is only mildly interested. After all, it's probably just some dumb girl with cooties or a mean boy who would kick his sandcastles. When the boy shuffles into the room a few moments later, Scott spares him a glance, goes back to his coloring, and pauses.

Something about the thin, pale brunet seems familiar. Scott looks back at him and racks his confused, six-year-old brain. He can't quite place where he might've seen this boy before, but Scott likes the color of his eyes. They look like the chocolate pudding his mother packs in his lunch every day.

Miss Maple smiles at the class and lets the boy introduce himself. He murmurs his name quietly, but Scott can't hear it from the back of the room. He says a few more things and then looks back at the teacher, waiting for her to react. Still smiling, Miss Maple guides the new boy to the only empty desk. They move like an unadorned procession. The curious heads of the other first graders turn in tandem, watching their teacher and this new boy move to the furthest back row of seats.

Scott eyes the new boy as if he's some magical creature instead of another human boy.

"There you go, Stiles," Miss Maple sets the boy's supplies down on the desk. He quietly slides into his plastic seat and the spell is broken. Immediately all of the gazes but one snaps back to Miss Maple, making her way back to the front of the classroom.

Scott's unwavering stare remains fixed on the pale boy beside him.

_Stiles?_  Scott wrinkles his nose.  _What kind of name is that?_

He watches as Stiles picks up a pencil and scribbles his name. The boy's hands are shaking and he's pressing too hard on the pencil. The tip breaks with an audible  _snap._ He's doing everything in his power not to look at Scott beside him as he blinks, staring thin-lipped and bright eyed at his useless pencil. The boy's chest heaves up and down slightly. He doesn't have anything else to write with.

Scott reaches in his plastic pencil box and pulls out one of his favorite pencils. It's his Batman pencil with the little wing emblem on the black eraser. He considers it for a moment, wondering if this new boy is really worth it, before holding it out to the new student.

Stiles stares at the offering for a moment. His gaze darts up and scrutinizes Scott's innocent face for a moment before his pursed lips break out into a small smile.

"Cool," he murmurs and takes the pencil.

Scott watches the boy as he goes back to writing. His hand no longer shakes and his breaths are even again. The graphite in Scott's superhero pencil doesn't break.

.

Because he's the new kid, Stiles is the wanted commodity in the lunch room. They want him more than chicken nuggets. The students clamor for the boy's attention, hoping he'll sit by them. For a moment, Stiles looks absolutely overwhelmed by the attention. He stands in the cafeteria's doorway, fidgeting and rocking, constantly twisting his pale hands.

Scott watches mildly interested from a distance. He sits at the furthest table by the big windows.

He always sits alone.

Even though Stiles borrowed his pencil—his  _Batman_  pencil, no less—Scott knows very well that the action does not guarantee a friendship. It's only a matter of time before the new boy is taken away by the others. He looks back down at his lunch, pretending not to feel the strange twisting in his stomach. He knew he wasn't sick, so maybe he was hungry.

Scott picks at the crust on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His mom didn't have time to cut the crusts off this morning, getting the two of them ready for entirely different days. His dad was supposed to make his lunch, but he forgot.

A shadow crosses in from of him and Scott's head snaps up. Stiles is standing there, nervously rubbing his hands and bouncing slightly in place.

"Can I sit with you?"

Scott blinks before nodding vigorously. No one has sat with him for lunch since Bobby moved away last month.

Stiles sits down and tilts his head down, still rubbing the pale skin across his fingers and palms. He doesn't pull out a lunch and he didn't bring a tray with him.

"Don't you have any food?"

A redness creeps across the boy's neck and ears. "No…" he murmurs ashamedly.

"Why?" The accusing question sounds innocent in Scott's mind.

"My dad was too busy to pack my lunch so he gave me money…but I lost it."

"Oh," Scott nods and glances down at his sandwich. He doesn't really like grape jelly much anyway and he also has the pudding cup his mom packed. He rips off a large section of the sandwich and offers it to Stiles. The boy hesitates before taking the food with a soft thanks and a faint smile.

When the purple jelly explodes across the new boy's face at the first bite, they both laugh. After a moment, Scott remembers what the boy had said previously.

"Why is your dad so busy?" Scott asks, tilting his head.

Stiles wipes at the sticky goop with the back of his sleeve. "He's working hard to be sheriff of the whole town someday," he announces proudly.

"Wow." Scott is impressed, but he doesn't want to be one-upped. "That's cool, but my dad is in the FBY."

"It's FB _I,_ " Stiles corrects with raised eyebrows.

Scott scowls. "It's still cooler than being Sheriff. My dad's job is the coolest in the whole wide world!"

"No, it isn't!"

"Yuh-huh!"

"Nuh-uh!"

.

The fight spans the rest of the day. Miss Maple has no choice but to call their parents. Melissa McCall and Deputy Stilinksi arrive to pick up their kids, the latter in particular no doubt wondering how his son could have gotten into so much trouble after just one day.

Scott sits in the plastic chair by the principal's office, swinging his legs with his toes barely brushing the tile. Stiles sits across from him, but they're trying hard not to look at each other. They're supposed to be mad at each other.

He straightens up when his mom and another man in a tan uniform walk down the hall. They're talking about something and Scott only catches a few words.  _Claudia. Sick. School. Closer to the station._

_Stiles._

His mom stands in front of him and presses her hands to her hips. She's trying to look stern, but it's clear that she's exhausted from her long shift. Scott slips off the seat and follows her out the door. He pauses to look behind him, watching the uniformed man squat down in front of Stiles and pat the sniffling boy's knee.

Scott wonders how his dad could have the best job in the whole wide world, yet he still couldn't be there to pick him up.

* * *

**Year 3**

He's devastated when his mother tells him that his usual babysitter is sick with the flu. Every few weeks, his mother's night shifts coincide with his father's lengthy cases, leaving Scott at the mercy of a baby sitter for hours.

The situation worsens when she tells him that he'll have to spend the entire night, since his father is in Sacramento for the rest of the week. The only time Scott has ever spent the night away from home was one night at his grandfather's house and a few times when they go to the beach.

"Can't I go to work with you?" Scott pleads on the way to his temporary home for the night.

His mother glances at him from the corner of the rearview mirror and explains that she'll be too busy helping the sick people in surgery to watch him. She tells him that he's going to stay with a family that she works with and they have a boy Scott's age.

Scott pouts, pretending to be angry to conceal his extreme apprehension, and glares out the window. Unfamiliar streets and houses blur past, but he doesn't bother to pay attention. He knows he won't need to remember any particular landmark, because his mother assures him it'll just be this one time.

When they pull up to the house, Scott wrinkles his nose. It's smaller than his house, but it's cozy looking.

He hates it already.

He's too busy scowling to notice the familiar police cruiser his mom parks beside. Scott unbuckles himself, but he waits for his mother to open his door, because he's still mad at his entire unfortunate predicament. The boy slips from his car seat and stiffly puts his backpack on with another obnoxious expression of woe. He dawdles by the car while his mother crosses to the front door. She glances back at him and lifts an eyebrow. He has no choice but to follow.

Heaving a childish sigh, Scott trails after his mother, waiting by the door. He can hear heavy footsteps and excited, youthful shouting from within the house. Scott's eyes widen and he glances back at his mother. Again, he's nervous about meeting this boy, but he's curious because the loud whoop sounds vaguely familiar.

The door flies open and Scott blinks at the pale face in front of him.

"Stiles…?"

A thin, tired young woman appears behind Stiles and smiles over Scott's head. "Hello, Melissa." Her gaunt face brightens when she looks down at the nervous boy on her front step. "Hello, Scott."

Scott's mother smiles back. "Thank you for agreeing to take him for the night. You're a life saver, Claudia."

"It's no problem at all." The woman pauses for a moment. Scott studies her delicate features, watching shadows flicker across her smile. "It's the least we can do after all your help…"

His mother wraps Scott in a tight hug, whispering for him to be good, before straightening up and heading back towards the car. She waves at them as she drives away, leaving her son with two strangers. Scott wishes he could go with her.

"Welcome to our house, Scott." The woman smiles again at Scott, absently smoothing down her son's hair. "Why don't you show him your room, Stiles?"

Stiles, now silent and guarded, watches the new boy with a strange expression. After another moment of careful scrutiny, he waves his hand and turns around, gesturing for Scott to follow him. Scott trails after the boy and Stiles' mom closes the door behind them.

.

He has only been in the Stilinksi house for a little while and already he is ready to go. He wishes he paid more attention to the drive there, because then he could run and find his way back home.

After Stiles takes Scott to his room, he simply turns back towards the new boy and nervously twists his hands as he watches him. Feeling the awkward tension, Scott responds by staring everywhere around the boy's room except for at Stiles himself. The only contact the boy tries to make with Scott is gesturing towards the corner and murmuring that Scott can leave his stuff there.

Scott is relieved when Stiles' mother calls them down for dinner ten minutes later. Scott follows the boy towards the dining room because he doesn't know the layout of the house. He hopes this is a onetime thing.

The deputy is already seated at the table, casually flipping through papers in a manila folder. He glances up and smiles widely at Scott. Scott smiles weakly back. A few weeks ago, the man came to their class to talk about his job. Scott had asked his father to do it as well, but the older McCall just sighed, insisting he was too busy for "show and tell."

When Stiles' mom enters, carrying a stack of plates, she groans good-naturedly and smacks her husband on the shoulder. "I thought I said no working at the table."

Scott tries not to giggle at the sight of the petite woman bossing around the uniformed officer. Stiles does not even bother to conceal his snickers, laughing loudly at his father's expression of mock shock.

"But Claudia—"

"No buts." The woman tries to force a stern face, but a smile breaks through. "We're having a crimeless family dinner with Mr. McCall. We don't want to scare the young man away already."

Deputy Stilinski glances to the side, catching his son's wide grin. "I'm sure Scott wouldn't mind. Right, son?" Scott smiles sheepishly, fidgeting in his seat. His father never offers to share details of his work, so he isn't sure how to respond.

Claudia rolls her eyes again, disappears, and reappears with a steaming plate of tiny breaded morsels. She divides them equally between the two boys.

"I hope you like chicken nuggets, Scott. Stiles said they were your favorite food."

Scott peeks at the other boy's reddening face. He vaguely remembers an assignment a few weeks ago where they had to describe their favorite things. The boy must have overheard Scott asking his teacher how to spell "nuggets."

.

When their bedtime arrives, Scott begins to feel nervous again. As darkness falls around the Stilinski house, he is painfully reminded that he will not be sleeping in his room. Scott shifts from foot to foot, waiting in Stiles' room alone while the other boy showers. When the boy comes back, hair dark and dripping, he tilts his head and studies Scott. Since dinner, Scott's host has become markedly chattier and Scott starts to wonder why they never talked in school, especially considering the boy's overwhelming enthusiasm.

"Do you have any pajamas?"

Scott shakes his head. He had forgotten that he was spending the night until his mother reminded him in the car.

"Well, I have some you can borrow." Stiles sizes the boy up for a moment before disappearing in his closet. When he returns, he tosses Scott a balled up outfit. Scott unwraps the clothes and laughs at the faded Batman emblem on the front of the shirt.

"Batman's my favorite," Stiles admits. The boy almost looks embarrassed for a moment.

"Mine too," Scott smiles back. He glances down at his backpack and is reminded of his school supplies. "I have a Batman folder and some pencils too," he adds.

"I know," Stiles responds, giving the boy a funny smile.

.

When Scott comes back after changing, Stiles is already wrapped up in his comforter. Scott glances around the room for a spot on the floor to sleep, but the floor is covered with the sharp remnants of their Lego city.

"What are you doing?" the boy asks, poking his head from his fluffy nest. "You can sleep up here. It's big enough for my whole family, so it should be big enough for you too," he adds matter-of-factly.

Scott nods and quickly jumps into the bed. Stiles shuffles to the side, giving Scott more room. He reaches towards the lamp, but pauses after glancing at Scott.

"Are you scared of the dark?"

"What?"

"If you want the light on, it's okay," Stiles clarifies. "I used to be scared of the dark until I got Wolfie."

"Wolfie?"

The boy gestures to the plush wolf perched over the bed. "My dad got him to keep me safe when…" Stiles pauses before finishing, "when my mom has to go to the hospital."

"Oh," Scott falls silent, looking at the worn stuffed animal with ragged, patchy ears.

"I used to sleep with him, but now that I'm older, I can sleep without him," he brags. Stiles tears his smiling gaze from Wolfie back to Scott. "So, are you scared of the dark?" he repeats.

Scott looks at Wolfie's warm, shiny eyes and the well-loved bushy tail and shakes his head. He always sleeps with a nightlight, but he supposes he can go without for one night. Besides, he doesn't want to seem like a baby to his new friend.

"No."

Satisfied, Stiles pulls the cord on his lamp, casting the entire room in darkness. Scott hears a sleepy "night, Scotty" and a faint sigh as the boy settles into a quick sleep.

Scott tilts his head, staring at the open closet door. He's also afraid of the monster in his closet, but he doesn't dare tell Stiles that either. He glances back at Wolfie, considers the wolf for a moment, and closes his eyes.

He'll let Wolfie protect him too.

.

The next time his mom has to work the late shift, Scott asks if he can stay with the Stilinskis instead.

* * *

**Year 4**

Scott's world almost ends when the new girl comes to school.

Her entrance is innocent enough: nervously twirling her pigtails as she introduces herself as Lydia Martin. Scott watches the girl with mild curiosity and turns to see his best friend's reaction to the new student.

Stiles appears to be sick. Scott frowns as he notices his best friend's flushed cheeks and wide eyes as he watches the girl take a seat.

"Are you okay?" Scott whispers to the boy when their teacher returns to his desk. "Your face looks funny."

Stiles ignores his friend. His gaze is still latched onto the strawberry blonde. "Do you think she's pretty?"

"What?" Scott cranes his neck to get a better look at the girl. "Pretty?" he echoes doubtfully. The last time he checked, girls were still foreign lifeforms to the both of them. He can't remember a time when Stiles ever called  _anything_  pretty.

" _Really_ pretty," Stiles agrees, completely oblivious to Scott's suspicious stare. "I bet she's really smart too."

"Smart?!" Scott gasps, completely horrified. He is now confident that his best friend is terribly ill. He never gets the chance to respond, because their teacher fixes them with a stern expression. Scott falls silent and glares at his paper. He tries not to look at Stiles, because he knows the other boy is trying not to look at the new girl.

Scott scribbles his name down and peaks back at the new girl. He considers her for a moment before returning to his work.

It doesn't matter who she is. Stiles will go back to being normal soon enough. Scott's sure of it.

.

Scott quickly tries to forget the girl's name, but Stiles won't let him. For the next week, the boy chatters incessantly about Lydia Martin. Scott thinks he's going to go insane, but he doesn't snap at his best friend, because Stiles looks so happy now. However, it becomes more difficult to remain cheerful when all his friend wants to do is talk about Lydia instead of Legos and Batman.

He has yet to talk to Lydia in person (and something tells him that Stiles hasn't either), but after the girl's second week of being in their class, she and Scott are paired up for a math assignment.

Scott is devastated to discover that Lydia Martin is, in fact, very smart and she smells like flowers.

He hates her already.

She's also, he quickly finds out, unforgivably kind to him. Despite Scott's blatant attempts at ignoring the girl's suggestions to solving their assigned problems, she still smiles at him and corrects his multiplication mistakes with a gentle, yet confident tone.

He soon reaches the conclusion that Lydia Martin is a perfectly nice and smart individual, which only makes him dislike her more. After all, she's smarter than him  _and_  she smells nice. He knows he isn't being fair, but Scott is irrationally afraid that this girl will take away his best friend.

Therefore, he decides to make sure she never will.

As Scott reaches his last multiplication row, he glances to the side to notice Lydia is already finished. She's watching Stiles curiously as he tries to argue with their teacher about why they can't multiply halved numbers yet.

"That's Stiles," Scott begins offhandedly, scribbling down a random number.

"Stiles?" the girl repeats, trying the name on her tongue.

"Stiles," Scott affirms. "He's my best friend."

"Really?"

"Yep," Scott continues, writing down another number. "He talks about you sometimes."

"He does?" Lydia's strawberry blonde eyebrows dart upwards.

The boy sets his pencil down and stares into the girl's green eyes. "I don't really think he likes you." Lydia's delicate features furrow in an expression of shocked confusion. Scott continues, ignoring the guilty twist in his gut. He knows he shouldn't be doing this. "He always complains that you act too smart. He says girls shouldn't pretend to be smart." Scott feels really,  _really_  guilty now, but he has to persevere in order to save his friendship.

"He says girls shouldn't be smart?" Lydia whispers back. Scott is afraid that he's made her cry, but the girl doesn't look upset. She looks  _furious_.

"Ye-es," Scott answers slowly, wondering if he might've made a horrible mistake. When the girl storms away, Scott waits a moment before shrugging uneasily. Nothing serious can come of this, after all. Stiles will just forget about Lydia soon enough and things will go back to the way they were.

What's the worst that could happen?

.

Reflecting on his actions, Scott realizes that he probably shouldn't have told Lydia those lies. It was petty and mean and Scott feels bad about it, especially when Stiles is upset after being one of the two kids in the class to not receive a birthday invitation to Lydia's party. Scott is the other non-recipient, but that doesn't make his friend feel any better when he mentions it.

Stiles is at a loss as to why the strawberry blonde suddenly ignores him. He doesn't know why she hides her intelligence. He can't figure out why she stops reading on the swing and instead tries to play "damsel in distress" with the big, mean fourth graders like Jackson Whittemore.

Scott knows why though.

He knows he has to make it up to his best friend somehow. When they sit at the kitchen counter that night in Scott's house, drowning their sorrows in chocolate milk, Scott promises wholeheartedly to help the other boy in his plan to win Lydia Martin's affection.

Girls are stupid and silly and he thinks the plan is pointless, but he's glad to see Stiles' toothy grin again.

* * *

**Year 5**

He finally understands death. It isn't a peaceful nap or a simple goodbye. His mother was wrong.

It's the itchy suit he wears while standing beside his mom. He squeezes her hand, because she'll miss her too, but he knows another person needs his silent support more.

It's the distance to his best friend he can't cross because there's a literal gaping  _hole_  in the way. The rain that falls from the dark, indifferent clouds, causing streams of water to trickle down faces in a mockery of tears.

It's the tortured expression of his best friend: a blank stare when no one's looking and a fractured smile when they are. The murmured words of condolences that have no power other than reminding the remnants of the tattered family of what they've lost.

Scott watches Stiles closely, wishing he could whisper something to him that would make the boy smile. Instead, Scott's rooted to the spot and Stiles is a thousand years away. The pale boy just gazes at the dripping coffin, no doubt wondering what he did to deserve this. Scott wants to tell him that it isn't his fault, but he doesn't know how to phrase the words.

.

When Stiles comes back to school the next week, he's very different. The boy's brilliant, quick eyes are now shadowy and dull. The shaggy hair that used to hang messily in his eyes is gone, shaved close to his head. The new haircut emphasizes the boy's large, sorrowful eyes and gaunt features, making him look more like an alien than a child.

Scott is overjoyed to have his friend back, but this seems far too much like an empty shell. The boy doesn't sit at their regular spot in the corner of the cafeteria and Scott has to search for his friend throughout the school. He finds Stiles standing by a random water fountain, holding the machine's button down and watching the clear liquid gracefully arc and disappear down the grated drain.

"Hey, Stiles." It's the first words he's spoken to his best friend. The boy doesn't respond, instead just staring at the water's progress.

"Stiles, it's lunch time," Scott tries again. "You have to eat something," he insists gently.

There's a beat of silence before the paler boy releases his death grip on the water fountain's handle. Stiles turns back towards his friend and his eyes are bright. "Okay, Scotty," he whispers, allowing the other boy to lead him back to their spot.

Scott doesn't quite understand what the boy was doing at the water fountain, but when Stiles goes missing, he always looks for some water source. Usually he finds his best friend there, transfixed by the clear liquid.

.

When Deputy Stilinski has to work a late shift, Stiles comes over for their first sleepover since the funeral. The boy is active and smiling until the darkness falls. Then he seems to be stranded in the middle of his friend's room, rubbing his arms nervously as his narrowed gaze darts around at the shadowy surroundings. In the daylight, the superhero posters and action figures are innocent enough, but at night, they are menacing, looming nightmares.

However, the boy eventually breaks from his trance and reaches for his bag to change into his pajamas. Scott stands over the boy, watching out of the corner of his eye as Stiles shuffles through his clothes and toys. A flash of familiar fur catches Scott's eye.

"Wolfie!" he blurts before he can stop himself. Stiles pulls his hands quickly out of his bag, his face reddening with embarrassment at being caught with the childish stuffed animal.

However, Scott bends down and gently tugs the wolf from the boy's bag and sets it on Stiles' side of the bed. "I was hoping you'd bring Wolfie," he announces. Stiles' lowered gaze darts up to his best friend's face.

"Really?" Stiles wrings his hands together before dropping them. He's scared that Scott will call him out for being a baby for still needing his plushy dream guardian.

"Yeah!" Scott nods his head enthusiastically. "I've been having nightmares that Mr. Farren's new moustache is going to come after me in the middle of the night."

Stiles giggles weakly at the mental image and the redness around his cheeks dissipates. Scott breathes a sigh of relief at the boy's smile.

.

Stiles didn't cry at the funeral, but he cries that night in his sleep.

Scott lies awake, hearing the muffled gasps and hitched breaths, wondering if his friend is awake as well. The weak sounds seem to be strangled, as if the boy is trying to control himself.

He eventually falls asleep, but when he wakes up, Stiles is already awake, staring at the ceiling with heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes. He's been awake for hours.

Scott wonders if Stiles will ever have a good night's sleep again.

.

He asks his mom to wait in the car. The woman doesn't inquire about her son's strange afterschool request, but agrees to wait patiently in the parking lot of the Beacon Hills Cemetery. She offers to come with Scott, but the boy refuses politely, claiming he would prefer to go alone. His mother simply nods and sets the car in park while her son clambers out of the vehicle, dragging his backpack behind him.

Scott knows Stiles and his father went to see the grave two days ago. He could sense the quiet tension in his best friend during school yesterday and today. He remembers the way the boy's pencils snapped too easily and his reluctance to eat. It was painful to watch, but Scott knows he can't ask the boy about it directly or he'll just retreat back into his distant, blank shell.

He trudges towards Mrs. Stilinski's grave and carefully lowers his backpack to the ground. Although he knows far more about death than he did years ago, he still doesn't want to disturb the sleeping mother.

"Hi, Mrs. Stilinski," Scott murmurs softly, feeling incredibly awkward at addressing a gray slab of stone. He hopes he'll never have to do this again. "I'm sorry that Stiles is still so sad. I'm really sad too, because you were so nice, but Stiles is more sad. I'm trying to make him feel better, but I'm not sure how."

Scott purses his lips together and rocks back and forth on his stained tennis shoes. One of his laces is untied, but he doesn't bend down to fix it yet. Instead, he roots around in his backpack and pulls out a pointed stick. He buries it amongst the assembled flowers and mementos.

"I don't know if Stiles ever told you," he begins, "but sometimes vampires live in the…in the… _masoleuuums_. I think part of the reason he's so upset is because he's scared that they might hurt you, so I brought you that to protect yourself. It always kept the vampires away from my family, so you should be safe," he adds confidently.

"But you don't have to worry about us, Mrs. Stilinski. I promise to protect Deputy Stilinski and Stiles."

"I won't let anything happen to them."

* * *

**Year 6**

When Scott wakes up that morning, something is missing. Not in the traditional, shoe-lost-under-his-bed sort of way, but something is definitely gone. He can see it in his mother's distant stare, watching him when he's struggling to tie his shoes. His head hurts for some reason and trying to think about what's wrong only exacerbates the pain.

His father is supposed to take him to school today, since his mom has to work, but Scott doesn't know where he is. He doesn't call up the staircase, hollering for Scott to hurry up so they won't be late. He isn't waiting by the railing, where Scott always high-fives him in midair when he jumps from the last step.

He isn't anywhere.

Scott perches on the middle step, peers down into the hallway, and watches his mother through the railing bars as she frantically puts together all of his strewn stuff. Scott has packed his own bag for several years, but she seems desperate to do it instead. She slips his Batman folder into his book bag, followed closely by a magazine from the coffee table. Scott frowns, wondering why he needs to take the magazine to school, as his teacher never asked for one.

He notices that his mom is trying hard not to look at the staircase—or at him. He doesn't ask why, partly because he doesn't recognize that anything is seriously wrong. Agent McCall is just late again and he'll be by after school to pick him up. Scott's sure of it.

The doorbell rings. His mom freezes.

Scott bounds down the rest of the steps, oblivious to his mother's deep intake of breath at his reckless action. He yanks the door open, prepared to see his father with the car warming up in the driveway.

Instead, he sees the sheriff.

True to Stiles' prediction, his father became sheriff of Beacon Hills. A few years after the claim, but nonetheless the man now wears the freshly polished star, earned in the latest election.

The sheriff eyes Scott carefully before looking over his shoulder. "Melissa," he greets with a faint bob of his head.

"It's okay now." His mother answers in a way that doesn't quite answer anything. Scott can't figure out what she means.

"Scott!" Stiles' head pokes out from underneath the man's arm. He bounces into the room, and stands right in front of Scott.

"I thought I told you to wait in the ca—" Sheriff Stilinski begins, clearly exasperated, but not particularly surprised.

Stiles simply ignores him, grabbing Scott's arm and pulling him away from the staircase and into the living room. He opens his mouth and immediately the sound of carefree chatter trickles out. His mother's pinched expression gradually relaxes as she shares an unreadable expression with the sheriff. She whispers something to him. Scott can't hear what they're saying over Stiles' enthusiastic rambling.

When she pulls away, the sheriff smiles a bit too brightly. "How would you boys like to ride in the brand new sheriff's car?"

Stiles scoffs and rolls his eyes in an endearing ten-year-old imitation of maturity. "It isn't any different from the other police cars." However, the boy leans towards Scott and his eyes light up mischievously. "There's already a bloodstain in the backseat from a murderer who had guts on his clothes after he blew someone's head off," he whispers excitedly. Sheriff Stilinksi quickly suppresses his surprised choke with a cough. He wonders which deputy spilled  _that_  little secret.

Bloodstains aside, Scott is excited to ride in the police vehicle. For all the time he's spent with the sheriff's son, Scott has yet to ride in an official sheriff's cruiser.

When he comments on this, Sheriff Stilinksi laughs. "Hopefully this won't be a recurring pattern. I already have enough trouble with this one." He playfully rubs the paler boy's fuzzy head, earning a groan from his son. The domestic happiness reminds Scott of his absent father, but the crater seems less noticeable with the exciting prospect of riding in the police cruiser.

Sheriff Stilinksi's radio buzzes on his shoulder and he nods towards Scott's mother before backing out the door. It's time to get to school.

Scott shoulders his book bag, grabs his lunch box, clenched tightly in his mother's white knuckles, and moves towards the door. He glances back to see if Stiles is behind him and notices that the boy's narrowed eyes are still fixed on a spot on the ground by the base of the staircase.

"Stiles…?" Scott ventures curiously, wondering what has made his friend so quiet.

The boy turns around and immediately his face shines with a wide smile. All hints of the thunderous expression have dissipated. Scott wonders if he imagined it. "I wasn't able to smell the guts, but maybe you can with your weird nose," he grins.

"I bet I can!" Scott grins back, momentarily forgetting the red-rimmed eyes of his mother and the clenched jaw of his best friend.

.

Scott groans when he opens his lunch box.

There's nothing in it apart from the molding apple he refused to eat yesterday. He thinks back to the morning, remembering his mother's distracted bustle around the house and the stray magazine in his book bag.

Upon hearing his friend's groan, Stiles leans over the table to peek at the contents of Scott's lunch box. He wrinkles his nose at the apple.

"Gross."

Scott nods dully. "My mom must've left my lunch on the counter." He prods at the rotting fruit with a disgusted expression, which only deepens when the fruit collapses upon itself.

Stiles is quiet for a moment. When Scott looks up to ask about his friend's un-Stiles-like silence, he sees the boy carefully dividing his own packed lunch into halves.

"Here." Stiles shoves the larger half of his sandwich, perched upon the torn fragment of his brown paper bag, towards Scott. Scott blinks at the food and looks back up at Stiles, who smiles encouragingly at him.

"You need food to grow taller. I can't have my best friend being so shrimpy."

"But I'm taller than you."

The boy considers this for a moment. "Fine," he sighs gustily. "You got me. I actually want your pudding cup tomorrow. My dad never buys them for me anymore." The boy's second sigh sounds far more wistful.

"Deal," Scott grins, biting into the sandwich. It's soggy from too much mayonnaise and the white goop trails down his wrists when he squeezes the bread too hard.

It tastes delicious. Scott tries to remember why he was so worried, but nothing comes to mind.

* * *

**Year 7**

In all honesty, it was Stiles' idea first.

He isn't surprised when Stiles starts talking about a book he read about ancient Indians. The boy excitedly jabbers about a game used instead of warfare to determine tribal status.

He knows he should have expected the boy's next logical step to be playing this game.

Stiles arrives at his house one day, toting a baseball and two uniquely fashioned pieces of equipment Scott can legitimately say he's never seen before. The best way Scott can describe them are two forked branches with pieces of string tied between the prongs. He wonders how long the boy scoured the reserve for the sticks.

"What are those?"

Stiles looks down at his handiwork and grins proudly. "Remember that game I told you about? The one in my book?"

Scott nods warily. He remembers. He also remembers Stiles gushing enthusiastically about the loser being sacrificed to the gods and he doesn't quite have the desire to bleed out on an altar.

"They played a game that's kind of like hockey and soccer at the same time."

"Woah…"

"But get this! They had to catch the balls in the nets on these little sticks! Then they had to run for  _miles_!"

"Woah…." Scott echoes. This game sounds like a bad idea, especially for one with poor hand-eye coordination and chronic asthma, but he doesn't say anything to dampen Stiles' eagerness.

"Hundreds of years ago they had fancy names for it, but now people call it lacrosse." Scott nods again, this time more confidently. He remembers hearing the name somewhere.

"People actually can play it in high school," the boy continues excitedly. "Think about it—we can be star lacrosse players in high school!" To Scott, high school sounds like a very foreign concept. It's about as easy for Scott to wrap his head around the lengthy, complicated rules of lacrosse than it is to think about being in high school.

After Stiles explains the rules, he waits patiently for Scott to react. The boy thinks about the game for a moment, slowly digesting all of the rules and strategies before smiling. It sounds like fun. It could be the game; it could be Stiles' infectious smile. Regardless, Scott wants to give it a try.

They start by just throwing the ball back and forth to each other. As Scott accurately predicted, he is too uncoordinated to catch most of Stiles' wild throws while the latter is too eager and swings consistently early, missing all of Scott's already weak tosses by a wide berth.

However, things don't get messy until Stiles suggests they practice  _running_  with the ball.  _Inside_  the house. Because, after all, they don't want to be sitting on the benches come lacrosse season.

Perspiring and panting, Scott is too far consumed by the excitement of the game to devote any breath to arguing, much less any time for thinking about all the little red flags this new idea raises. Instead, he gasps a rattling wheeze and bends his knees, preparing to dash in whatever direction Stiles throws the ball. Scott watches his best friend with an intense, animal-like focus. The concentrative expression on the eleven-year-old's face is uncanny.

Predictably, Stiles' lips quirk up as the boy glances towards the heavily furnished living room. He is so excited to trick his friend that he accidentally gives away his plan. Scott leans heavily on his other knee as if he were to run towards the kitchen in an attempt to throw off Stiles. It works, as the paler boy rears back with his makeshift lacrosse stick and hurls the baseball towards the living room with a triumphant shout.

Stiles' gloating becomes background static in Scott's ears as he surges towards the ball in midflight. Everything is a blur as he focuses on the spiraling ball, perched tantalizing in the air above him. Maybe he's moving faster than he's ever moved before. Maybe he's running through an asthma attack and the oxygen-fatigue is dulling his senses. Either way, he sees the ball and he knows he's going to get it…or die trying.

His feet, barely skimming over the carpet in his mind, catch on a protruding rug corner. The rush of air he imagines billowing past him is really the brief sensation of unrecognized falling. Stiles' adoring screams in the background are actually terrified shrieks.

The illusion doesn't even shatter when his shoulder crashes through the coffee table. He's oblivious to what's happening. There is no pain as he tries to roll away from the scattered remnants of the coffee table. He simply groans and blinks dully at a trembling Stiles. His best friend is staring at him with horror, gape-mouthed and pale.

The panic doesn't set in until Scott looks down and sees the glass protruding from his arm. Then Stiles starts to yell, further confirming Scott's assumption that he is going to die.

He turns towards Stiles with wide, bright eyes, barely able to keep his breathing steady. His cheek hurts and he can only imagine the glass shredding his face to pieces. He wonders if he'll have to wear an eye patch—and not the cool, pirate kind either.

"I'm gonna die," he whispers, which only causes the other boy to howl more.

When his mother runs down the stairs to see the carnage, she stops mid-step, one foot hovering over the next tread.

"Oh my God…"

She looks from her hyperventilating son to his whimpering best friend, knowing somewhere deep in her heart that this won't be the last time she has to smooth away the pain for these boys.

Or buy new furniture.

* * *

**Year 8**

When Scott is forbidden to leave his house after a particularly nasty asthma attack, Stiles takes it upon himself to cheer his friend up.

He determines a scary movie night is the only appropriate solution to "scare" Scott's boredom away.

Scott watches his best friend with narrowed eyes as the latter dumps out his entire collection of smuggled horror movies on the living room floor. Stiles is a huge fan of terrifying films, so his assemblage is rather impressive.

Scott prefers the funny movies where people don't get dragged under their beds, but he doesn't mention this to Stiles. He's grateful for the boy's company, especially when his visitor is sacrificing prime pool time by spending his vacation day with him.

He also has a feeling that Stiles knows  _exactly_  how Scott feels about horror movies and uses it to his advantage. Stiles probably loves pretending to be the brave friend, especially when Scott cringes at each late night creak in the house.

Powerless to do anything else, Scott simply sits on the couch and watches with pursed lips as the other boy roots through his collection.

"What should we start with?" Stiles quickly sorts his various films into several categories. Movies about monsters. Movies about crazy serial killers. Movies about monsters that are crazy serial killers. Scott glances from DVD to DVD, gauging the amount of teeth and blood on each cover.

"How about this one?" Stiles picks up a garishly decorated case and squints at the summary on the back. "Scott Howard is in for a hairy surprise when he discovers being a werewolf runs in his family…" the boy murmurs, narrowing his eyes as the summary progresses.

"What's it called?"

" _Teen Wolf,_ " Stiles wrinkles his nose, tossing the film to the side. "It doesn't sound very scary at all, even though it has the guy from  _Back to the Future_ in it."

Scott considers this before agreeing with a nod. If he's going to watch a horror movie, he doesn't want to be a little terrified. He wants something that will really freak him out.

"Do you have any movies with vampires?" Scott straightens up, scanning the assorted movies in the "monster" pile.

Stiles taps his chin twice before digging through his collection. "I haven't watched this one yet," he admits, waving a very crimson case in Scott's direction. "It's technically rated R, so…" the boy trails off, unwilling to admit his own hesitancy to watch the gory film alone.

"Let's watch that then."

Stiles climbs to his feet with a grunt and hobbles towards the television. He's refused to let Scott get up for anything short of emergency dashes to the bathroom, taking Melissa's strict instructions to heart.

A thought strikes Scott as he stares at Stiles' exposed neck as he bends over the DVD player.

"I wonder where the vampires comes from."

"We'll pro'by find out," the boy grunts, holding the plastic case between his lips while his hands are busy switching out the discs.

"No, I mean in real life. Do they come from the masoleuuums?"

Stiles turns around and blinks at his best friend.

"What?"

"I said, do they come from the masoleuuums?"

The confusion across the boy's face clears. His inky eyebrow darts up in amusement as he realizes what his friend is trying to say. "What was that word again?"

"Masoleuuum?" Scott echoes. Stiles cackles and Scott's brows knit together. He doesn't understand why this is so funny to him.

"Why are you laughing?"

"It's not  _masoleuuum,_ dude. It's  _mausoleum._ "

Scott mashes his lips together, hoping his face isn't too flushed. Unfortunately it must be, because Stiles only laughs harder.

"That's how I heard someone pronounce it once," he justifies with a pout, crossing his arms.

"They must've been an idiot then."

"Ohh…  _Definitely_."

Stiles rolls his eyes. He flings himself onto the couch, shuffling and shifting until he finds a comfortable spot, nestled against Scott's side.

"Though, you're probably the idiot for listening to them."

Scott's weak retort dies on his tongue as the film starts. He's grateful for his best friend's continual twitching beside him. The boy settles deeper into the couch, determined to enjoy the movie.

What's the worst that could happen?

.

As the last credit rolls, Scott knows he's made a terrible mistake.

Stiles quickly shuts the television off. Their wide-eyed, pale reflections stand out in stark contrast on the blank, black screen.

When the telephone rings, jarring in the still, silent house, Stiles shrieks and topples off the couch. Scott clambers over his best friend, heart racing from the sudden scare.

"He—hello?" Scott's youthful voice cracks. He clears his throat, breathing deeply through his nose.

"Scott, it's me."

The boy breathes a sigh of relief and glances back at Stiles, wriggling violently to escape his blanket cocoon. "Hey, Mom. Are you on your way home?" His mother had gone one of her first dates since his father's abandonment, leaving the two boys to guard the house.

"Well, about that…" His mother trails off and Scott senses a smile in her voice. "We decided to go out for coffee, so I'll be home a little bit later."

"What?" Scott's voice lilts up again and he rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, faintly embarrassed by his uncontrollable shift in pitch. Stiles stops his squirming and fixes his best friend with an urgent expression.

"I said I'll be home in a few hours." There's a pause as his mother considers her son's strange response. "You don't need me to come home early, do you? Oh God. Please tell me Stiles is not on fire  _again_ —"

"We're fine," Scott lies, swallowing the rising lump in his throat. Inevitable vampire attack or not, his mother sounds genuinely happy and he doesn't want to spoil her night. Even if he thinks Roger is a weirdo with funny hair.

"Well, okay then. As long as you're fine." His mother sounds suspicious now, but Scott quickly assures her that Stiles is flame-free and murmurs his goodbyes.

When Scott hangs up, he glances in Stiles' direction.

"Is she coming home soon?" The boy sounds almost hopeful.

"No. She likes Roger a lot, so they're going to get coffee."

"Eww." Stiles falls silent and casts a nervous glance at the darkened window. "I'm not scared of the dark or anything…but did she say when she's coming home?"

"Few hours."

"Oh."

Both boys tense at the sound of the wind outside. Scott's chest starts burning and he realizes that he's been holding his breath.

"We should have watched that stupid werewolf movie," the paler boy moans, dragging his hands across his face.

After all, everyone knows that werewolves don't exist.

* * *

**Year 9**

Stiles doesn't show up to school that day.

Scott assumes the boy is sick, though he seemed perfectly fine the previous day. He goes about his day, lamenting the fact that he will have to eat lunch alone for once.

He doesn't assume anything is truly wrong until the principal calls him to her office right before lunch. Scott's blood freezes when he sees his mom seated in the opposite chair, her expression pinched and pale. She's still dressed in her scrubs, having come to the school immediately after her shift. Scott hears them mention the sheriff's name and his heart begins to pound.

When his mother notices his terrified stare through the glass of the principal's window, she smiles tiredly at him and rises to go to the door. Scott's breathing rate increases until he's only aware of the sound of his terrified pants.

"Scott, sweetie," his mother's eyes widen when she sees the sheer terror plainly spread across the boy's trembling features. "Everything's okay."

"Sti-Stiles?"

"Shhh, Scotty. Everything's okay," she whispers, smoothing down her son's unruly hair. "It's okay."

"Where's Stiles?" Scott wishes he brought his inhaler with him because it feels like he's going to suffocate. "He wasn't at school today and then they called me to the principal's office and you're here and they mentioned Sheriff Stilinski—" Scott stops in the middle of his panicked rant to take a deep gasp of air.

"The sheriff and Stiles were just in a little car accident on their way to school." Scott waits for his mother to continue. His heart feels like it's about to burst from his chest. "They're both fine, but Stiles just has to stay in the hospital for a little bit."

Scott slowly takes a hiccup breath, trying to calm his looming attack. "They're okay…?" he murmurs tentatively.

"They're fine," his mother confirms again, brushing a soothing hand along her son's back. "I came here after my shift because I thought you would like to see Stiles."

Scott nods once then quickly in a frenzied blur. "Yes," he blurts, unable to control his relief that his best friend isn't seriously injured. "Can we go right now?"

His mother's smile grows. She ruffles his hair again. "I figured you'd say that."

.

Scott first sees Sheriff Stilinski sitting outside of one of the special testing rooms. He rubs his hands nervously but he forces a weak smile at the sight of Melissa and her son. Trusting the sheriff to watch her son, Scott's mom waves goodbye and disappears in the room.

"Hi, Scott. Your mother told me she was going to pick you up from school. Hopefully you aren't missing anything important."

Scott shakes his head. "No, we were just watching a movie because we had a substitute teacher. Stiles and I won't have much to make up."

"That's good. That's good," he repeats to himself absently. Scott notices that the man's left sleeve is rolled up with a large bandage wrapped around his bicep. There's also spots of crimson along his uniform and on the side of forehead. The teenager swallows nervously and looks back to the pale man's tired expression.

"Where's Stiles?" Scott asks awkwardly, rocking back and forth on his heels.

The sheriff glances behind him at the sealed door. "He hit his head in the accident, so the doctors are just making sure that he's okay. He should be out any moment now."

Scott nods and patiently waits for the next agonizing five minutes until the door opens and Stiles is pushed out in an oversized wheelchair. The injured boy's expression brightens immediately at the sight of his best friend. There's a stark white bandage wrapped around his forehead and another around his forearm, but the boy's spirits seem undiminished.

"Scott!" Stiles grins and struggles to climb out of the chair, but Melissa gently pushes him back into a seated position.

"Slow down, kiddo. Remember our deal? You promised to stay put if I brought Scott here." The patient huffs obnoxiously but settles back into the wheelchair.

"You bargained your own kid to get Stiles to listen to you?" Sheriff Stilinski looks impressed, as if the thought had never occurred to him. The doctor in charge of operating the MRA machines steps out and greets the sheriff and Scott's mom with a reassuring smile.

As the adults move to the side to discuss Stiles' condition, Stiles immediately launches into a rapid-fire summary of the busy day's events.

"It all happened so fast, Scotty!" Stiles begins with wide eyes. "We were at the stoplight by Mrs. Jensen's house—you know, the one with the funny left turn arrow. Well, when my dad slows down because the light just turned yellow, the driver behind us wasn't paying attention.  _Bam!_  She hit us right in the back, but it wasn't that bad since we were stopped and she was already slowing down." Stiles pauses for a quick breath before diving into his story's next segment. "You won't be able to guess who it was!"

"Who?" Scott smiles faintly. He's just glad to hear Stiles talking. He can't imagine what he would do if the boy had been seriously hurt.

" _Miss Gunt!"_ Stiles crows, almost rising up out of the wheelchair, but settling back down after a stern side glance from Scott's mother. "Our  _teacher_  hit us! She was so upset, so my dad didn't get too mad. She's here somewhere because she hurt her wrist or something. I still had to go to the hospital because I hit my head, but it doesn't hurt or anything."

"Is your head alright?"

Stiles shrugs, assuming it's fine though he isn't certified to know for sure. "I think so. It was just really annoying because they made me get an MRA scan and it was really loud." Stiles' eyes narrow and his lips purse irately. "It was awful and it lasted  _forever_." Stiles brightens and sits up straighter, "But apparently everything went okay since my dad isn't freaking out or anything."

Scott turns around to watch the adults conversing. Stiles is right. Sheriff Stilinski seems quite relieved, nodding rapidly with a wide smile. His mom comes back, followed by the sheriff.

"Hey, kiddo," She smooths the hair down around the boy's bandage. "The doctor said you were fine, but we still want to keep you here overnight. Just to make sure."

Stiles' face scrunches up as he thinks about spending the night at the hospital alone. "Can Scott stay the night too?"

Melissa swaps an amused glance with the sheriff. Apparently, they had already foreseen this question.

"Well…"

" _Please,"_ Scott adds, drawing out the vowels. "Today's Friday, so we don't have school tomorrow."

Sheriff Stilinski breaks first, laughing and shaking his head. "Alright."

Both boys burst into excited shouts. They have yet to have a sleepover in a hospital.

"I'll take you home so you can grab some stuff. I have to swing by to pick up clothes for Stiles anyway." He pats his son's shoulder before heading towards the door.

Scott follows the officer, waving to Stiles before he turns away.

"Cya soon, Scotty!" Stiles calls after him as Melissa wheels him towards his room.

* * *

**Year 10**

When Scott's voice drops and Stiles grows four inches that summer, they believe themselves to be invincible.

("Dude, I'm so much taller than Lydia now. Like, the perfect height taller.")

However, as Scott soon discovers, this newfound invincibility does not translate nearly as well on the lacrosse field as he had hoped. After just the  _warm up_  lap, Scott can barely breathe. His oxygen-starved heartbeat pounds in every fiber of his body, most notably echoing through his skull. He avoids Stiles' concerned glance and lines up with the rest of the players after a quick couple of desperate gasps.

He manages to control his breathing in a poor imitation of perfect health, but Coach's next round of torture completely destroys his illusion of being fit enough for first line.

Coach calls them super-suicides, because apparently they make the unlucky victims  _super_  dead after completing them. A mere suicide is not enough.

Scott manages to make it to the first turn back point before his pants begin to grow ragged again. By the time he reaches the second turn back point, he's behind the last runner by a good five feet. By the third turn back point, the panic sets in, driving the air from his lungs as his helmet rattles around his skull. He can no longer feel his pumping legs, nor can he see straight, wobbling into the running lanes of the other runners.

"Watch where you're going, McCall!"

Scott manages a few more labored steps before he collapses. His chest heaves and he frantically grabs at the cleat-hammered grass for any kind of pathetic purchase. His helmet and shoulder pads further constrict his pained breathing, making each shallow gasp more terrifying than the last. Scott's vision blurs and he vaguely senses something shadowy hovering over him.

"Scott! Scott!"

Someone keeps shouting at him, but he can't hear them over the roar in his head or the gasps being harshly ripped from his throat. He numbly feels frenzied scrabbling at the buckle under his chin and suddenly his face is bathed in warm sunshine and cool air. It stunts the panic, but he still can't breathe, so he knows it's only inevitable for the terror to return again.

"Scott!"

Someone lifts him into a sitting position and he feels something plastic bang against his teeth. He obediently closes his lips around the circular tube, realizing with a delayed understanding that it's his inhaler.

"Breathe, Scott!" A loud, panicked voice shouts in his ear. There's a hissing sound and Scott carefully inhales the first puff of chemical laced air. It's an automatic response and he counts for ten seconds. Eventually everything starts to settle down and the sun no longer turns cartwheels in the sky.

The inhaler is pulled from his mouth and Scott begins to breath normally again.

Stiles' pale, worried face hovers in the boy's vision, confirming Scott's guess on who had saved his life. He offers Scott his condensation laced water bottle and when the stars clear from his vision, he takes a slow, careful sip.

Coach appears over Stiles' shoulder, blinking at the two boys.

"Uh, good work, Boli-Sti-whatever your name is. Why don't you take McMill over to the nurse?" Scott is too breathless to correct the coach and Stiles strangely doesn't seem to care.

"Sure thing, Coach," Stiles nods, climbing to his feet and dragging Scott up along the way. With one arm tucked around the weakened boy's waist and the other clutching Scott's wrist, slung over Stiles' shoulder, the paler teen leads his friend towards the school in an awkward shuffle.

After a moment, Scott's breathing settles down to a rhythmic huff and he untangles himself from his best friend's grip. He stops in the middle of the journey and crosses his arms. The other boy keeps moving forward until he notices Scott's obvious reluctance to continue. He turns back and studies his friend with one hand on his cocked hip.

Stiles tilts his head and lifts an eyebrow. "What's up, buddy?"

Scott glares at the ground, frustrated at his own weakness. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Well, I'd say you just experienced an acute asthma attack. But I'm not really a doc—"

"I  _know_  that," Scott snaps, instantly regretting his outburst after seeing the hurt expression flicker across his friend's face. "Hey, I'm sorry," he murmurs. "That was just really—"

"Embarrassing? Dude, I know." Stiles tips his head back and squints at the broiling sun. "I think I might've screamed like a girl when you collapsed. I don't know how I can ever show my face again."

Scott smiles despite the ache in his chest and the burn across his ears. "I meant about the inhaler and the asthma attack."

"Oh, right. That." Stiles scratches his head for a moment, deep in thought. "Y'know, you aren't the only one on the team who has to take it easy."

"What?"

"Yeah," Stiles continues, "you know why Danny's the goalie, right?"

"Because he's good…?"

"Nah…well,  _yeah,_ of course _._  But he has something wrong with his chest or whatever. Saw it in my dad's files once." Stiles waves his arms over the general direction of his chest, only making the explanation seem vaguer. "He doesn't run as much as the others so his chest doesn't explode or something. I dunno. Told you, dude—not a doctor."

"Oh…" Although he knows it isn't the most appropriate reaction, Scott smiles at the realization that he isn't the only impaired individual on the team.

"Great, so now let's actually get you to the nurse. I'm totally craving some AC."

Scott trails after his friend when a thought strikes him.

"How'd you know what to do back there? With the inhaler?"

Stiles stares at his friend with an unimpressed expression. "You serious right now? Dude, I've been your best friend for like, forever. I know your weaknesses and I know how to use an inhaler."

"But how'd you know where mine was? I thought I left mine in my locker."

Stiles hesitates, but decides he might as well answer the question. "Your mom gave me a spare one when you said you were trying out for the team."

"Oh..."

"Yep."

"Well…thanks."

"No problem, buddy."

.

The second day of tryouts revolves around shooting practice.

Stiles is woefully unprepared. Scott knows how hard the boy practiced in the summers leading to this week, but the sheer concentration and poise needed to pull off successful shots are not in his friend's collection of skills.

Stiles knows this too.

By the first water break, initiated when Coach couldn't stop laughing at Stiles' latest attempt to score and had to compose himself, everyone else on the team has figured it out as well.

Stiles tries to ignore the insults from the first line players, but Scott notices the uncomfortable tick of his friend's jaw after each muffled snicker. One person in particular seems to infuriate Stiles the most.

"I bet he'll just have his dad threaten Coach until he puts him on the team. This whole town knows the guy can't do much else as sheriff." Loud guffaws echo around the captain.

Stiles' jaw clenches and his trembling fingers curl up into fists. Scott knows it's only a matter of time before his friend's temper snaps.

"Jackson," Scott interrupts with a dangerous expression. The captain stops mid-chuckle to blink at the freshman.

"Shut the  _hell_  up."

Scott's uncharacteristically savage tone does indeed shut the older boy up. His mouth drops open and the snickering buzz behind him falls silent. Before the captain can counter with a witty remark, Coach calls them all back for round two. He sees a smile flicker across Stiles' face before the boy's helmet hides it.

* * *

**Year 11**

Mr. Johnson is selling his jeep.

Stiles  _wants_  this jeep.

Stiles  _needs_  this jeep.

Stiles knows he will  _die_  without this jeep.

Consequently, Scott hears about this jeep on a regular basis. He often sees this jeep, because the teenager insists on stopping by Mr. Johnson's house every other day to make sure the jeep is still in the man's driveway.

Scott also knows that Stiles' has been saving up for months to get this jeep. Their summertime video gaming sessions have taken a massive hit as Stiles volunteers at the station, filing papers part time for a small allowance. Having nothing else to do without his best friend, Scott applies for a job at the local animal clinic.

Stiles is only a thousand dollars away from having enough to buy the jeep. He figures he can earn the last bit working for the last month of summer, especially if he pulls double shifts at home as well. When the teenager calls Scott on the phone to break the bad news about their shortened summer, the other boy sounds distracted. When Stiles asks about it, Scott tells him not to worry.

A week after Stiles officially gets his permit, he begs and pleads for his father to take him to Mr. Johnson's house and buy the jeep. The sheriff sighs good-naturedly and agrees to loan his son the final thousand if Stiles promises to pay him back. The teenager agrees, swelling with uncountable excitement. He can barely sit still on the seemingly endless drive to Mr. Johnson's house. He texts Scott about the miracle; his message is loaded with a surplus of emoji's and exclamation marks.

The jeep is no longer in the driveway.

Mr. Johnson is there, counting something green. Stiles feels his heart stop as he all but falls out of his father's police cruiser. The teenager dashes towards the old man, skidding to a stop in front of him.

"Mr. Johnson! Where—where's your jeep?!"

"Sorry, Stiles," the man shakes his head. "I just sold it. I'm really sorry 'bout it, kid. I know you had your heart set on it."

The teenager opens his mouth and shuts it, too overwhelmed with a crushing sense of despair to even respond. "I…it's okay…" he mumbles, backing towards the police cruiser. He doesn't know what else to say.

Months of dedication and hard work wasted for a dream that slipped through his fingers. Stiles' is too numb, staring at his empty, key-less hands to notice his father handing Mr. Johnson a thick envelope.

.

Scott calls Stiles a few minutes after receiving the text. His best friend doesn't even answer until the third ring.

"So, did you get the jeep?"

There a pause on the other line and all Scott can hear is the buzz from the sheriff's police radio.

"No," Stiles' gusty sigh floods through the line.

"No?" Even though Stiles is miles away and unable to see his expression, Scott lifts his eyebrows in surprise. "What happened?"

There is a faint mumble on the other side.

"What?"

"Someone already bought her…" Stiles sounds incredibly depressed and Scott mashes his lips together as he considers his next words.

"Dude, that sucks…"

"Tell me about it!" Stiles groans on the other end. "I worked  _forever_  filing papers and getting stupid paper cuts to get her and some guy buys her the day I want to."

"That really sucks," Scott repeats, unsure of what else to say.

"Yeah, well, on the bright side, I guess I don't have to keep working at the station because there's literally nothing in the world I wanted more than that jeep…"

Scott blinks once, then twice. Stiles' crippling disappointment would have been more dramatic in person and he regrets not joining the teen on his unsuccessful journey to get the jeep. However, the teenager had other matters he had to attend to instead.

"Well, are you heading home then? Or do you want to stop by my house?"

There is another pause as Stiles converses with his father. "Nah, I'll be by your place in like five minutes. Cya soon..." The teenager sighs again before hanging up.

"Bye," Scott adds before ending the call. He shifts slightly on his hard metal perch, waiting for his best friend to arrive.

.

When the police cruiser pulls into the McCall driveway, Scott waves cheerily at the vehicle's inhabitants. There's a beat of silence before an inhuman squawk breaks free from within the cruiser. The car's painted door flies open and Stiles' flailing arms and legs tumble out of the vehicle.

" _Scooott! Scoooott! Oh my God! Scoooottyyyy!"_

Scott slips off his lofty perch on the blue jeep. "Yeah, dude?"

"The  _jeep_. You bought  _her!"_

"Correction:  _we_ bought her," Scott's grin widens.

The pale teen freezes for a moment. "What?"

"You paid for most of her. I just chipped in with the last thousand dollars."

"But—"

"I paid Mr. Johnson the rest of the money while you were busy pouting in the car," Mr. Stilinksi appears behind the teenagers, rubbing his ringing ears.

The pale teen's mouth hangs open as he glances from his father to his best friend then to the jeep.

" _Iseriouslydon'tbelievethisrightnow. Thankyousomuch. OhmyGod,"_  he rushes out in a single, overjoyed breath. The panting builds to an excited hyperventilating after Scott offers the other boy the keys. The darker teen rattles the keychain for a moment, lifting a calculating eyebrow.

"Hey, I didn't pull all those shifts at the clinic for nothing. The way I see it is you owe me rides for, like,  _eternity_  now." He drops the keys in Stiles' outstretched palm.

Overcome with emotion, Stiles launches himself at his best friend, causing the teen to stumble backwards with a startled shout. They tumble to the ground in a pile of laughing limbs, leaving Sheriff Stilinski to simply shake his head with a bemused smile.

* * *

**Year 12**

Stiles is mad at him, but Scott isn't sure why. He can just sense the teenager's irritation when he meets the human at his jeep, but Stiles doesn't say anything. The teen merely grunts as they get inside. He's silent as they pull out of the school parking lot. Scott peers at his friend, searching for a reason in the human's narrowed features.

He doesn't get his answer until his cellphone rings. The tinny sound causes Stile's lips to tighten.

Scott glances down at his phone and peaks back to his friend's forced expression before answering.

"Hey…Allison."

The girl's excited voice echoes in the cab as she describes their plans for the evening. Scott eyes Stiles' grip tighten imperceptibly around the steering wheel, confirming Scott's suspicions that his relationship is the reason for his best friend's blatant distance.

"Hey, Allison—" Scott begins, cutting the girl off in the middle of her sentence. There is a pause as Scott casts another glance in Stile's direction. The boy forces his gaze to remain fixed on the road, but the werewolf can tell he's dying to know what his friends are saying.

"I'm really sorry, but can I get a rain check on tonight? I just remembered—I have to, uh—my mom needs me tonight. Something for work, yeah…" Scott trails off lamely. He apologizes again and murmurs a quick "love you too" before ending the call.

Stiles finally breaks the awkward silence, an inky eyebrow darting up in barely suppressed glee.

"That was really painful to listen to."

"Yeah."

"Like,  _really_  painful."

"You don't have to remind me."

"So do you want me to drop you off at the hospital then?"

"Ah, no. I don't really have to help my mom out."

"Then who are you and what have you done with my best friend? You just turned down a date with  _Allison_!"

"I know," he sighs gustily. "Now I have nothing to do tonight."

Stiles tears his gaze from the empty road in front of them to glance at his best friend. "Well, you could always come over for pizza and video games or whatever. Y'know, if you don't have any werewolf-y things to do instead."

"That sounds good," Scott smiles back, hoping Stiles won't call him out on his deliberate change in plans.

Stiles does not intend to keep silent on the matter.

"Dude, you are so going to be screwed when Allison finds out you ditched her."

"Yeah?"

"Like, you just canceled plans with the daughter of a world renowned  _werewolf_  hunter. Oh, and she is also a prodigy when it comes to archery."

"Yeah…" Scott echoes, paling at the thought of the entire Argent clan against him.

"Also, you ditched her to spend time at your best friend's house who is painfully, ordinarily  _human._  When they come, I'm going Benedict Arnold on your fuzzy ass, because I'm not getting shot with wolfs bane."

"Wow, thanks," Scott resists the urge to roll his eyes. This is Stiles' way of chastising him, but the human is too excited about their ultimate pizza night to stay too firm. "I'm thinking about calling her back right now and telling her I made a mistake." His threat is hollow.

"You're so in the literal doghouse right now."

" _I know."_

"But you know you're going to totally lose your girlfriend if you keep dumping her. Just so you know. You'll go back to being as single as…well… _me._ God, that sounds pathetic."

Scott glances out the window at the familiar landmarks before the human parks his jeep in the Stilinksi driveway. "Well, I don't want to lose my  _girl_ friend, but I'd rather not lose my  _best_ friend either."

Those simple words cause the human's expression to brighten. "Thanks, Scott," Stiles responds, a smile stretching across his lips. He grapples with the door handle, but pauses before sliding out of the jeep.

"Now, let's get the pizza in the oven and decapitate some zombies before this gets too sappy."

.

By two o'clock in the morning, their conversation takes a dramatic spin. Scott's mind is growing hazy from his pepperoni pizza coma, while Stiles' is physically vibrating from suppressed exhaustion and a copious amount of caffeine.

"Dude," the human begins, twisting his body to rest on his elbows and stare at the werewolf. "I'm so glad you ditched Allison tonight, but try not to do it too often."

"What?" Scott forces his drooping lids open and he peers strangely at his best friend. "What?" he repeats, forgetting that he already asked for clarification.

"Like, can you  _imagine_  the bachelor party?"

"What?" In his sleep-deprived delirium, Scott discovers his new favorite word.

" _Dude!_ " Stiles groans, rolling his eyes as if the werewolf isn't understanding his erratic train of thought. "You're like the only guy I know who's going to get married. I have to be able to plan at least  _one_  killer bachelor party before I die."

"Uhh…"

"I mean, can you imagine  _Isaac_  in a relationship? Nah, me neither. Also, Sourwolf? Uhm, double nope. Obviously, since you're the only one with a girlfriend, you have to get married so I can plan your bachelor party. It's what best friends do," he adds seriously.

Scott struggles to process what the boy is babbling about.

"You want me to get married…so you can plan a  _bachelor_  party?"

"Finally you're catching on. There would be so much pizza…and chicken nuggets, 'cause they're still your favorite, right? And we can hire a stripper for you. Maybe two strippers…" he murmurs drowsily.

Scott falls silent, considering this. He never thought about marriage, and thinking about it now at two in the morning is less than ideal.

"Maybe," Stiles begins around a massive yawn, "you and Allison and me and Lydia can, like, double marry. Like a double date, but with doves and eternal contracts and stuff…" the boy trails off, finally succumbing to the tantalizing grip of sleep.

Scott drifts asleep with a smile, dreaming of seductive pieces of breaded chicken.

* * *

**Year 13**

He doesn't know where he's going. All he knows is that he has to get out. Get away from the nightmares that plague his sleep. The ones that cause him to bolt upright in his bed, screaming.

He should be freezing, riding with only a thin t-shirt in the rain, but he can't muster up even the slightest bit of sensation in his numb body.

Scott can hardly see the road in front of him and it's a miracle he hasn't crashed. He supposes it doesn't matter if he crashes, because he'll just heal. He'll heal, but theynever will.

Allison won't. She's never coming back _._ Her death destroys Argent's only chance of ever healing. Lydia won't heal either. Not without her best friend.

Aiden won't. Ethan won't. One twin can hardly go on without the other. It's like trying to survive without half of your soul. Scott can't even imagine it.

Isaac won't. He finally let someone in, let someone see the horrors he's endured alone, and now he's alone again.

Derek won't. He's already lost so much looking after a bunch of dumb teenagers. His sapphire eyes will never flash gold or ruby again.

Scott now remembers what he's running from.

He all but runs his motorbike over the curve and bounces into the yard, tearing massive craters into the marshy, soft dirt. He rips off his helmet and rubs at his eyes. Scott can't tell if he's been crying or if his face is wet from the rain. He doesn't check for red-rimmed eyes in the reflection on the helmet's visor, nor does he glance at his side mirrors.

Scott wonders if this is how Lydia feels before the scream. He's moving blindly without any understanding or coherency until he finally stumbles to a stop. There's a moment of bemused blinking, as if waking from a trance, and then he's left standing in some strange place with no idea about how he got there or what he's supposed to do. He's just trying to outrun the dead.

Amidst the pouring rain and darkness, the Alpha sees the well-loved jeep sitting in the driveway. Now he knows where he is, but he doesn't know why.

Scott realizes that Stiles will never heal either. The human will never forgive himself for the Nogitsune or for hurting his best friend, even though the werewolf's physical wound is now a mere bad dream. The boy doesn't possess any bodily injuries, but that doesn't mean he isn't free from pain.

Despite his powers and his Alpha status, Scott can't figure out how to heal himself or the members of his pack, because something needs to be physically broken before it can be fixed. Shattered emotions and frayed heartstrings are constructs of the mind, not legitimately damaged organs.

Scott backs towards his bike, fully prepared to leave the Stilinksi house without another word, when the porch light flips on. Stiles stands on the front step, silhouetted by the misty glow of the outside lamp and the harsher glare of the hallway lights inside. He rubs at his eyes, either too tired to notice the rain soaking his flannel pajamas or too concerned about the sight of his distraught friend to care.

"Scott?" the boy murmurs through a sleep-heavy haze. "Thought I heard the bike. Sumthin' wrong?" he slurs, blinking heavily in the bright light.

Scott glances back towards his bike. He doesn't know what time it is, but it must be late for Stiles to have already been in bed. He opens his mouth to come up with an explanation, anything to describe the writhing feelings of hopelessness and guilt within him, but he can't formulate the words. He quickly clamps his mouth shut, turning his head away from the Stilinksi house. Away from Stiles. He fumbles with his bike, trying to get it out of the mud.

A warm hand clamps onto his shoulder, jarring the boy from his automatic actions. Scott turns towards his best friend, surprised to see him only an arm's length away. All traces of sleep or confusion have disappeared from Stiles' eyes, replaced solely by a tender concern.

"Scott," the boy repeats softly, shaking the werewolf's shoulder slightly to further break the teen from his reverie. The pale boy seems to glow in the faint haze of the lights behind them. The rain trickles over his dripping ears and eyebrows, matting down his hair in a dark halo.

The Alpha tilts his head up as something warm traces down his frozen cheeks. He supposes he now has his answer on whether or not he was crying.

"Scott, what's wrong?" Stiles continues, lifting his other hand to rest on Scott's other shoulder. "Dude, you're freezing. What the hell were you thinking, riding out here in the rain with no coat? Wolf powers or not, you're gonna get sick. Which means  _I'm_  going to get sick." Although the words sound admonishing, Stiles' tone is gentle, prompting Scott to follow his best friend as he guides him towards the front door.

Although Stiles' human senses are far less attuned to the darkness, he flicks the hall lights off for Scott's benefit. As Scott waits in the dark, grateful to be temporarily hidden as his body acclimates, Stiles stumbles and bumps his way to the laundry room, uttering grunts as his knees bash into unseen obstacles. He comes back with towels, unceremoniously draping the thick fabric over Scott's shadowy form.

Scott suppresses the childish urge to laugh as the towel completely covers his head and face. The consuming darkness begins to dissipate when he shrugs the towel off and wraps it around his shoulders. In the dim lighting, he sees a flurry of motion as Stiles attempts to dry himself. Behind the human, Scott can see the pulsing red flash of the digital clock on the oven. 2:25.

"I'm sorry," Scott murmurs, genuinely surprised at the late hour.

"'Sno problem." There's another burst of movement as the human waves his hand dismissively.

The boys fall silent before Stiles clears his throat pointedly.

"Are you going to make me ask or…?"

Scott sighs and rubs the towel against his numb arms, trying to bring some feeling back into them. He's grateful for the darkness. It isn't that he doesn't trust his best friend completely, but it's easier confessing the contents of his soul to a disembodied voice than facing Stiles' worried frown.

"I had a nightmare," he starts. He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts and Stiles doesn't impatiently prompt him. The boy simply waits in silence.

"I can't really remember what happened, but people got hurt. People died."

"Like Allison?"

"Yeah…" Scott falls silent, feeling the ghostlike wisps of the nightmare churn up painful memories. "Aiden too. And Ethan, Lydia, and Kira. Derek and Isaac. My mom, your dad, Argent. Hell, even  _Peter_  was there."

Stiles whistles, the high, splitting sound dropping in pitch and volume as a show of surprise. "Even Peter, you say?"

Scott laughs bitterly. "Yeah, that's how screwed up I am right now. You guys were all there." Scot waits for Stiles' predictable remark about finally being invited to the party, but the human stays silent. His dim outline hasn't moved and Scott is rather shocked by his friend's uncharacteristic stillness.

"It got especially hard when, you know… When…" Scott falters, unable to complete the sentence.

"When Allison died?" Stiles provides softly, taking a half step closer towards his best friend.

Scott nods once, then furiously. Suddenly all the control and calm he has built up threatens to burst like an overflowing dam.

Stiles steps hesitantly closer before carefully pulling Scott into a tight embrace. "It's okay," he whispers, which causes the werewolf to completely abandon his attempts at being stoic.

"I just felt so helpless. Like I couldn't do anything to help," he gasps. It feels like he's having an asthma attack, but he hasn't had one in years. Stiles' rubs tiny circles around his back, just like his mom used to during attacks, and Scott's rattling breaths gradually slow.

"It's okay," Stiles repeats. "Life sucks, but that's the way it is. Sometimes we're freakin' superheroes," he pauses to swallow, "but other times we're just left to pick up the pieces. Sometimes you just feel so useless." Stiles' hand halts mid-circle and when he resumes a moment later, they are no longer perfect rings. Now they're shaky, jagged ellipses.

"Sometimes we can't change a  _damn_  thing."

Scott almost misses his best friend's next words. "But you got me, dude, so that's  _something."_

Stiles buries his face into Scott's shoulder. It's a rare and intimate gesture. So rare, in fact, that Scott struggles to remember the last time Stiles allowed his best friend to glimpse his vulnerability.

His humanity.

He knows it has to have been some time before the Nogitsune took control, because since then the human's eyes have always been a bit too steely.

"Sometimes there's just nothing you can do." Scott feels Stiles' lips move against the fabric of his shirt. Each of the boy's shuddering breaths releases another puff of warm air. There's a beat of silence, then:

"You'll always miss her, but it'll get better. I promise."

A warm wetness that defies the icy rain's chill spreads across Scott's shoulder and he holds his friend tighter. They both need this.

An anniversary is coming up.

* * *

**Year 14**

One second Scott is blinded by the light. In the next instant, he is drowning in the darkness, trapped in someone's silhouette. Scott scrambles to his feet, blinking furiously to clear the stars from his supernaturally attuned eyes. He tries to remember what happened—

_Can't move._

_Lydia said not to let it touch me—can't move. It'll kill me, she said. Why can't I move?_

_God, why is it so bright? And what the hell was that sound? That smell?_

_Why was I on the ground?_

For a moment, the only things he can see are the brilliant pulsing of the electric baton's aftershocks and the anguished thrashing of the wraith a few feet away. White sparks of electricity still traipse up and down the creature's shuddering body. The shrouded monster won't bother them again. The swirling shadows flare until they eventually morph in a mockery of a familiar expression. Scott freezes, waiting for his brain to process the twisted face, but his eyesight is still recovering from the blast.

_Can't mo—Where're the othe—_

Scott's vision finally clears and the blurry, dark shape shielding him from the light materializes into his best friend. Stiles turns with a harsh, jerking movement. He tries to smile, but the expression doesn't quite meet his wide, frightened eyes. The electric baton, still clutched with white knuckles in Stiles' shaking hands, slips from his grasp and falls to the ground with an echoing clatter. Scott's gaze slowly travels down to rest on the human's torso.

The realization hits the Alpha like a physical blow. Ice courses through his veins as he realizes why the wraith's final form looks so familiar. The creature is a foreshadower of death, after all.

" _Stiles!"_

Scott surges towards his friend, grabbing the human's shoulders before he collapses. He tries to hold Stiles up, but the combined deadweight of the limp boy and Scott's own shock-weakened limbs causes them to crash to the ground in a poorly controlled fall.

"Stiles…" Scott breaths, staring down at the gaping hole in his best friend's chest. He pulls the frighteningly still human into his lap, placing a trembling and stained hand to the exit wound in Stiles' back. The boy whimpers at the contact and shifts away. Crimson blooms across the boy's ruined t-shirt. Scott resists the urge to gag as his fingers brush against the still smoldering edges of the injury. He presses his sticky palm to the boy's back, desperate to stop the lifeblood as it dribbles down his fingers and wrist. Stiles' life is literally dripping away and all Scott can do is try not to scream.

The monster punched a hole in his best friend's chest. Scott feels the pain too, suffocating his breaths and stopping his heartbeats.

"Stiles…you gotta stay with me." Scott tries to keep his friend awake. Already the boy's dark eyes are drifting closed. "Please..."

It takes effort, but the human squints and studies Scott's pale face. "D'we…geddim?" Stiles grimaces as he pants the words.

"Dude, what the hell did you do?" Scott tries to laugh for Stiles' benefit, but the tears start to well in his eyes and the laughter comes out hardly more than a weak titter. "Did you just  _electrify_  a freaking ghost?" His voice passes through his lips already dead on arrival. He can't fake optimism anymore.

"Gave 'em…hellva shock…" Stiles is similarly incapable of pulling off a convincing bravado as his attempts at chuckling results in a hoarse wheeze and the bubbling of crimson foam at the corners of his lips. Another bout of body-wracking coughs completely incapacitates the human and the pink spittle dribbles down his chin.

Momentarily paralyzed by the overwhelming fear of losing another important person in his life, Scott stares wordlessly at his friend. This seems too much like Allison.

_Oh, God._ He can't lose Stiles too. He can't lose his best friend. Not now. Not like this. Not  _ever_.

Catching Stiles' curious gaze, Scott forces another brave face. He knows his mask will shatter within minutes, but they don't have that much time anyway.

With his heightened senses, he can smell the blood, the fear. The death. He can hear the weak thud of the human's heart as each beat pumps more of Stiles' life away.

Scott can't escape the paradox. If Stiles' heart stopped, he wouldn't be bleeding out in Scott's arms. If Stiles' heart didn't beat, he'd be dead.

"Dude, you are such an idiot. I could've handled that thing."

"Fatal…to werewolves," Stiles considers his next words, struggling to speak around the blockage in his throat. Each syllable is a struggle, battling against his impossibly heavy tongue and the crimson pooling in his mouth. "Slightly…less fatal…to humans."

Scott snorts through his runny nose. "Okay, so you're a complete dumbass then."

Stiles smiles a wry, thin-lipped smile as his eyes flutter closed again.

Scott freezes. The heartbeats are now slow and few between. "Stiles?  _Stiles!_  Wake up!"

Stiles does. He opens his eyes obediently, but it isn't the same inquisitive stare Scott knows to be so characteristically Stiles. These eyes belong to a dying man, glassy and raving.

The solution comes to Scott like lightning—fleeting yet brilliant, overwhelming him with the most dangerous of emotions. Hope.

"Stiles," Scott begins to babble excitedly. He can save his friend. Stiles won't have to die. They can be truly brothers now, bound by the bite. "Stiles, if I bite you, you can heal yourself. I know you didn't want the bite from Peter, but he was a psycho. I promise I can save you. Alright?"

Scott glances down, expecting a multitude of expressions to be on the boy's pale face. Disbelief. Joy. Anger.

He doesn't expect to see the faded smile of acceptance.

"No…bite…." The words take an eternity to trickle from the boy's crimson-flecked lips and even longer to reach Scott's ears.

"Stiles…?" Scott echoes slowly, confused at his friend's unanticipated reaction.

"Don'…wannit…."

That fragmented utterance shatters the last lock on Scott's composure. The tears spill from his eyes in thin rivulets, dropping onto Stiles' steadily cooling body. Stiles' eyes are bright and red-rimmed from unshed tears, but the liquid remains trapped in pools in the hollowed bags under his eyes.

"Won'…work…" Stiles lifts up the edge of his lip, revealing crimson stained teeth in a comforting grimace. The human shudders through one final death throe in Scott's numb arms. When he looks up again at the Alpha, his gaze is surprisingly clear. "Cya soon…Scotty…" He flutters his fingers in an agonizing parody of a cheerful wave. Scott desperately grabs at the boy's fluttering fingers to stop him from waving farewell, because he can't bear this excruciating sensation of goodbye forever, but the thin digits fall still on their own.

Scott wants to ask, demand to know why his best friend is so intent on leaving him, but he never gets his chance.

He whispers the boy's name again and again as if each weak murmur could be another second of stolen time. As if each of his hiccup-y breaths could be another beat of the human's heart.

The Alpha crushes his best friend's broken body to his chest and sobs. He cries and cries until the once warm blood cools against his skin and they have to pull him away.

* * *

**Year 15**

It's been a year since they lowered his best friend into the ground and only now can Scott find the courage to return. He stares at the sparse grass stretched across the smooth plot. Some of the greenery has begun to heal after its violent disruption. However, he can't ignore the marked line of unhealed dirt, roughly in the outline of a buried coffin. It's like a permanent scar on the earth, as if the planet's heart had been ripped out and then tossed carelessly back in the hole.

He sort of knows the pain.

Scott doesn't know what else to say, so he starts off with a simple, stupid observation.

"It rained at your funeral," he begins softly. "You probably had something to do with it, trying to ruin everyone's fancy clothes." He laughs, because the alternative still feels too raw.

"Lydia's makeup was a mess. I think you would've loved it. Probably would've call her beautiful. You were always going on about that…"

Scott stops, wondering what he could possibly say to make the scar tissue on his own heart smooth again.

"Isaac came in for your funeral. He left right afterwards though. He couldn't stay here any longer. Not after Allison or Boyd or Erica. Not after his dad. Not after you."

"Lydia couldn't stay either. She got out as fast as possible. Literally. Her plane left on the day of graduation. She was the valedictorian, but I suppose that doesn't surprise you. She mentioned you in the speech. Sort of. She talked about the people we lost, but I know she meant you and Allison and Aiden."

Scott swallows thickly. "You probably would have been the salutatorian, but I can't imagine you speaking in front of a thousand people. You'd reference Star Wars and literally no one would know what you were talking about."

"I tried watching it after…after you were gone, but I couldn't." Scott shuffles his feet, scuffing up the mushy dirt with his stained tennis shoes. "Damn Yoda... Why'd he have to go, dude? It made no freaking  _sense!"_  Scott's voice cracks and he clears his throat twice. The Alpha takes a rattling breath and rubs his bare arms. Goosebumps rise up from the contact, but the temperature outside is quite warm. He just feels cold inside.

His speech to his best friend is raw and jumbled. The words fall from his mouth and he can barely stay on one topic for long. For him, it's easier to flit from subject to subject. That way he has less time to dwell on the reason everyone seems so empty now.

"Kira and I are still together. I mean, I guess that's what you'd call it. She likes to leave flowers at your grave, she said. I think she might be one of the only people who visits you regularly."

"I'm sorry that I can't. It's… It's just…"

"Your dad is doin' alright. He's tougher than you always pegged him to be. He's still saving lives from freaky supernatural things, but it's easier on him now that Deputy Parrish is helping out. My mom makes sure he's eating right. He'll come over for dinners once a week."

"It was so hard at first, because,  _God,_ we just stared at that empty chair for weeks. I think we never realized how much you talked, 'cause it was completely silent. It was so  _quiet._ "

"I really miss your voice, but I can't listen to the recording on your answering machine anymore because it'll just drive me crazy. That voice isn't  _you,_ Stiles. I asked your dad if he could disconnect it, but I haven't called to see or not."

Scott falls silent, trembling fingers poised over his phone, buried deep into his pocket. He wants to pull it out and check, but another part of him knows he can't. He starts on another tangent.

"Derek doesn't stick around much. He blames himself for what happened too. We all feel guilty, but he thinks—he keeps thinking that maybe he could have stopped that thing if he got to us in time. I tried to tell him…I tried to tell him we did everything we could, but…" Scott trails off, unable to continue. His breathing hitches and he feels like he's going to have an asthma attack. He thinks back to his first panic attack as a werewolf, how his best friend saved him with a simple trick involving a forgotten inhaler.

Scott hasn't used his inhaler since that day. Sheriff Stilinksi found a spare inhaler in his son's room when they went through his stuff. When the sheriff returned the inhaler to him, Scott had cried after the man drove away, clutching the inhaler to his chest. He still remembers the feeling—the anguish, the terror of being unable to breathe.

"Malia was devastated. You were her anchor, you know. I tried to help her, teach her how to get over losing it—like how I lost Allison—but it was too hard. She still holds on to you, but she can't control things as well as she used to."

"She used to smell like you. Now she smells like dirt and grass again. Derek says it's her old coyote den, but now that I'm here, I know this is what she smells like." He prods at the ground gently with the tip of his shoe. "She smells like the flowers that Kira leaves." He wonders how many nights the were-coyote has spent under the cold stars, tightly curled up on the dirt, watching over the grave of another person she loved but couldn't save.

"It just doesn't feel real," Scott continues after a moment of silence. "You were with me for literally my whole life. I just—I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do without your smartass remarks or your help with Chemistry homework. Like  _what the hell am I supposed to do now?!"_

A sob breaks out of Scott's throat, but he isn't crying. He can't breathe, but he isn't dying.

"What am I supposed to do, dude?" he repeats in a gentler tone. "You were the one with the plan. Usually the plan sucked, but you always had one."

"I just don't know what to do…"

* * *

**Year 17**

Never in his wildest dreams did Scott ever think he would make it to this day.

His  _wedding_  day.

In second grade, he had no use for girls. They had cooties and were always dressed too prettily to play in the dirt. Besides, he only needed one friend.

In fifth grade, after he learned how fragile a family could be, Scott swore he never wanted to get married. Stiles, on the other hand, compiled a ten-year plan for ensuring that he would spend eternity with Lydia Martin. Scott didn't understand, but he always agreed to help.

In ninth grade, he and his best friend had already resigned themselves to be hopeless bachelors. Even though Scott and Stiles were certainly interested in girls at that time, the feminine sex seemed painfully unaware of their presence.

In eleventh grade, Scott often lived each day in the present, rarely thinking about his future. After all, each day could easily be his last. It wasn't a defeatist attitude; he just never wasted time pondering a life after high school when his own life was so unpredictable.

As he stands at the end of the end of the aisle, he struggles to convince himself that this is real. His tuxedo is heavy, itchy, and damp from his nervous perspiration. The water missing from his dry throat now pools around the worn lines along his palm. He rubs his fingers against his palms, further spreading the sweat along his skin.

He isn't nervous because he's getting married. He has no fear for the future, no cold feet.

He's terrified because he never expected this day to come true. He never thought he would live to see the day where he could be simply  _normal_  for a single moment.

He's afraid he'll open his eyes and everything will be gray and miserable again.

Scott glances around the ornately decorated church, eyes catching on vibrant bouquets of fresh flowers and sputtering candles. There's an organist playing somewhere in the background, but the music echoes hazily in his ears.

His gaze roves over the small crowd waiting in the pews in front of him. His wedding is a small affair, but his closest allies are all present. People he never thought he'd see again also show their faces.

In the shadows of the church, he spots Deucalion leaning against a decorative column. Scott meets his stare and the older werewolf smiles because he finally sees. The man lifts a congratulating finger and Scott accepts the sign of respect with a relieved nod.

In the opposite shadows, Araya Calavera grins widely at the Alpha, waggling her fingers. Scott returns the hunter's expression with a nervous smile, hoping her wedding gift doesn't involve silver bullets.

A flurry of movement catches Scott's attention and he turns his head in time to see Ethan settle next to an already seated Danny and Jackson. Jackson's arrival from London was a surprise, most likely orchestrated by Lydia, but Scott is even more startled to see the omega again. The lone twin glances at Scott, gives him a sad smile, and reaches for Danny's offered hand. Somehow, Scott knows this will be the last time he sees Ethan and the omega knows it as well.

Coach gives him a proud smile. Scott realizes he never truly thanked the erratic man for everything he had done. Coach always knew a lot more than he would let on. The man took a chance on two gawky teenage boys, and for that, Scott is eternally grateful.

Sitting only a few seats away, Scott's former boss mouths a few words of encouragement only the supernatural in the room can hear. Scott nods, blinking away the faint wetness in his eyes. Deaton always had faith in him, even when Scott couldn't trust himself.

Chris Argent sits alone, stranded by himself in the middle of a pew. The man looks distracted, but he tries to smile when he notices Scott's worried gaze on him. Scott tries not to think about how the man's chance to walk his daughter down the aisle was prematurely stolen from him. Even years later, it hurts the Alpha to dwell too much on the past.

Mrs. Yukimura sits in the front row. Her cool stare thaws and she smiles at her future son-in-law. Mr. Yukimura waits in the back for his daughter.

His parents are nearby. His mom gives a little half wave in his direction. Her dark hair is streaked with silver, though her smile makes her seem youthfully radiant again. His father sits next to her, nodding with a pleased expression at the man his son has grown into. Pleased that he finally earned his way back into Scott's life.

Sherriff Stilinski and Deputy Parrish sit behind them. The younger man smiles politely at Scott. The Alpha takes a steadying breath before he glances to the sheriff but the older man isn't looking at him. The decorated officer is staring at the empty space beside Scott. At something that could've been.

Scott swallows harshly, understanding immediately what the man's vague gaze means, but he pushes away the thought for the moment. Instead, he looks blindly through the empty spot, staring at a neatly dressed Derek, Isaac, and Liam. Liam and Isaac blink tentatively at the supportive crowd, no doubt nervous at being so available to the public eye. However, the oldest werewolf notices his Alpha's sickened expression and offers a faint quirk of the lip upwards. It's gone within seconds, but Scott catches it with a grateful nod.

He looks to the other side of the raised platform. He sees Malia looking thoroughly uncomfortable, squirming in her tight, itchy gown. Even after years of being human again, Scott knows the were-coyote still longs for the liberating nature of her second skin over the tulle bridesmaid dress.

Conversely, Lydia stands perfectly erect without fidgeting, as if she was born to wear the decorative gown of the bridesmaid. She and Scott exchange a solemn stare. Lydia knows why Scott is uncomfortable. She understands why he's so afraid, so lost. Her gaze slips to the empty spot beside the groom.

Scott finally looks to the gap beside him. The "could've been" that only Sheriff Stilinski and Lydia can still truly see.

The organist starts his familiar tune and the guests dutifully rise in a single movement.

The Alpha squeezes his fists, cutting into his sweaty palms with his dull human nails. He's desperate to convince himself that this is all really happening.

It just doesn't feel real. Not without his best man.

Not without his best friend.

* * *

**Year 21**

When the doorbell rings, the excited whooping of a child answers it. Chuckling and sliding his son gently out of the way, Scott opens the door.

"Derek! Uncle Derek!" The toddler screams gleefully, throwing himself at the werewolf. Derek tries to hide his smile, but it breaks through his stoic expression.

Derek leans down and offers the boy a wrapped present. "Why don't you put this under the tree? But be very careful, alright?"

The child nods, accepting this mission with a firm expression. When the boy dashes away, the older werewolf straightens up and glances towards the Alpha.

"You shouldn't have, Derek," Scott grins. With his attuned senses, he could smell the overwhelming scent of something sugary wafting from the packaging.

"You're probably right," he agrees. "It looks like he's already had enough sugar to last him until next Christmas."

"He's going to be up all night," the shorter werewolf shakes his head in mock regret. "None of us are going to get any sleep." He sighs good-naturedly and glances out in the night. A glow at the corner of the street catches his eye, stopping him from shutting the outside door. Headlights briefly flare against his irises as a dark car pulls into the driveway. He waits by the door, ignoring the cool air blowing into the room.

Derek tilts his head to watch the lone driver exit from the car and struggle with pulling something out of the passenger side.

"I didn't know he was back," Derek comments with a strange inflection in his characteristically emotionless tone. Scott can't tell if the older werewolf is surprised or curious at the man's presence.

"He came back a few months ago. The, ah, department requested for his transfer. Apparently no one's been able to solve the cases like he could," Scott purses his lips to stop the grin. He doesn't mention his dad's involvement with trying to get the man back to Beacon Hills.

"The others had no idea what they were up against," Derek agrees, an amused smile softening his hardened expression.

When the man crosses into the faint glow from light pouring out the hall, Scott tries not to notice at how much the new arrival has aged. It seems as if the man had aged ten years within the span of time Scott had seen him last. However, the man surprises them all when he engulfs Scott in a massive, encompassing hug that causes tears to well in the younger man's eyes. The familiar sensation drags up bittersweet memories and he numbly returns the embrace.

"It's so good to see you, Scott," the man whispers with a voice choked with emotion. Which emotion, Scott isn't quite sure.

"Sheriff," Derek nods politely, offering his hand towards the older man. The uniformed man shakes it heartily, showing far more enthusiasm at the werewolf's presence than he had years ago.

"Derek." Sheriff Stilinksi smiles at the werewolf. The joyful expression makes him look younger, but there's still darkness trapped in the man's eyes and wrinkled brow. It only makes Derek more uncomfortable when he thinks back to the cause.

"It's good to have you back, Sheriff." Scott's smile stretches across his tanned face. "Beacon Hills needs you."

Stilinksi snorts weakly. "That's what Parrish said. He's had a hell of a time trying to keep things at bay." He falls silent for a moment. "I didn't really want to go," he confesses, "but they thought it was bes—"

"Daaaaaddy! Deeeerek!"

The toddler stumbles to a halt at the sight of the stranger in front of him. Stilinksi blinks once, then twice before turning to Scott. The boy tilts his head, observing the shiny star on the man's uniform and the empty gun holster at his side. His dark eyes roam across the man's shocked expression and shiny black shoes with a familiar concentration.

"Melissa told me," the sheriff murmurs softly. Although he has long since known about Scott's son, he still can't bring himself to believe the boy in front of him is real. The older man's eyes grow bright and Derek excuses himself quietly from the personal moment.

Scott struggles to swallow the lump rising in his throat. He realizes that this is the first time he's truly spoken with the sheriff in many years. They had all stuck together in the months  _after,_ bonding in the memories and sorrow,but then it became too difficult for the Alpha to handle. The werewolf had tried to cut any ties that would unnecessarily remind him of his lost best friend, even going as far as moving away from Beacon Hills. However, the supernatural draw of the beacon eventually pulled him back and Scott returned to his hometown, only to discover that the sheriff had been transferred to another division for personal reasons.

Scott should have realized his mother would maintain communication with the sheriff. He regrets not being the one to have told him about the newest McCall family addition.

"He's just turned three." Scott scoops the child up, despite the toddler's whines and wriggling at the forced relocation. "Sti, this is Sheriff Stilinksi," he introduces the child. Sti's squirming stops as he absorbs the title.

"Sheriff?" It's a word filled with the Wild West and gun-toting bandits.

The older man is temporarily speechless. He nods once, then rapidly.

"Cool," Sti grins, revealing a mouth of baby teeth. He fidgets again in his father's grip and blinks back at the younger man.

"Can I go see Aunt Lyddie?"

Scott lets the child go and both men watch as he scampers excitedly towards the seated strawberry blonde.

"His name is Sti?" Stilinksi asks hesitantly. He waits for Scott to answer, waiting to hear the werewolf confirm his fragile hopes.

Scott watches his son clamber into Lydia's lap and he hears the woman's high-pitched peal of laughter. "His middle name is officially Stiles, but it's easier to call him Sti." It feels strange to admit this aloud, but Scott manages to find the words. "He gets us all into trouble, but every second is worth it. He's brilliant," Scott finishes. When he turns back to the sheriff, the man's eyes are wet.

"I, uh, when Melissa told me you had a son, I um..." For the first time, Scott notices the hastily wrapped package in the man's arms. He shuffles it nervously from side to side until Scott takes it from him. "Stiles had one just like it, so I figured maybe…" He falls silent. Scott can feel the plushness of the wrapped toy underneath the shiny paper. He remembers their first sleepovers, the looming wolf that slept over Stiles' bed and protected him from nightmares about his mother. Memories overwhelm him and Scott's fingers curl reflexively around the present.

"He'll love it."

The sheriff chuckles weakly, blinks furiously to rid his eyes of their moist film, and excuses himself. Scott watches as the man finds a seat next to his mom, embracing the woman like a long lost friend.

He turns his gaze back to his son, who tugs gently on the banshee's swinging curl to get her attention. Lydia smiles down at the boy, but Scott can see the expression chip at the boy's whispered question. Scott tilts his head, focusing his hearing to catch the softly spoken words.

"When will Stiles get here?"

"What did you say, sweetie?"

"He," the boy gestures towards where Melissa and Stilinksi are conversing, "keeps talking about Stiles. Why does he have my name?" A faint pout brushes across the boy's curious face. "Is he coming?"

Scott freezes. Next to Lydia, Derek immediately tenses and looks to the Alpha, knowing the capabilities of the werewolf's hearing.

They have yet to tell Sti the story of his namesake.

Before Lydia has the chance to answer, Scott is out of the room. He moves mechanically, stumbling to a halt on the back deck, panting in the cold night air. His breath plumes out of his mouth in foggy clouds. His heart pounds in a way it hasn't for a long time. Scott tilts his head back and stares at the spattering of diamonds in the ebony canvas above him.

"Man, you should have seen his face." Scott pauses and swallows the hard lump that has risen in his throat. He doesn't know why he said that, but the words continue to flow from his mouth. The memories rush back and suddenly he's a teenager again. He knows who he's talking to, but he hasn't addressed the boy out loud for some time.

"I should have told him sooner. I'm so sorry. I just didn't—" Scott's lips freeze around the next syllable. He can't continue because then he'll just starting rambling about all the ways he's failed everyone again.

Scott stands perfectly still for another moment. He rehearses the ten thousandth apology in his mind, but he never repeats the words out loud. The heartfelt sentiments would have made Stiles groan about clichés and sappy wording, but his best friend is no longer there to laugh.

The Alpha glances through the window behind him. He observes the tattered remnants of his family and slowly the aching cold creeping through his body begins to dissipate.

Derek and Kira are laughing about something while the fox rubs a soothing hand over the growing bulge of her abdomen. His mother and the sheriff smile at each other, the former gently patting the officer's knee. Malia converses bluntly with the latest arrivals from France while Liam observes the hunter and brunet werewolf from a curious, yet safe distance.

Scott's eye lands on his son asleep, curled up in Lydia's lap with one pudgy hand wrapped around her delicate finger. The strawberry blonde buries her face into the boy's fluffy dark hair and Scott can sense her thoughts from a room away.

It's the holidays, but not everyone is home for Christmas.

* * *

**Year 39  
**

The sheriff of Beacon Hills hangs up the gun after a successful and long-lived career. Five years later, he passes away peacefully in his sleep. No supernatural violence. No pre-meditated murder. Just simple, beautiful old age. **  
**

Scott considers himself one of the last remaining members of the Stilinksi pseudo family, so the charge of preparing the arrangements naturally falls to him.

He dutifully takes on all the responsibilities without complaint. In all honesty, the man was a second father to him. After taking so much from the man throughout the years, Scott needs to do something to make up for it.

Everyone who's left chips in to buy the empty plot next to Stiles' grave. In a rare moment of clarity, Scott's mother breaks from her senile daze to suggest they buy a "masoleuuum" for the Stilinksi family. Scott laughs, partly because when he's laughing, he can't think about the memories threatening to overwhelm him.

The service is on a Friday. By that afternoon, the ground is sealed over.

He stands alone in front of the somber grave markers. An entire family, dead and neatly tucked away. A child, a mother, and the aged father who outlived them both. It's the entire life cycle.

Scott exhales slowly in the crisp autumn air, watching his breath come out in controlled puffs. He digs his hands into his suit pockets, feeling the coarse inner lining of his jacket with his chilly fingers. Although he's aged far better than his natural peers, certain things are starting to affect him now. He can't remember the last time he was ever truly warm.

"It's been a long time, huh?"

He studies the ground only a few inches from his feet. He can no longer tell where the dirt was displaced and scattered nearly thirty years ago during the earlier burial. The thin line of fresh grass that served as the marker between the newly buried and the resting dead is now nonexistent.

"A lot of things have happened," he continues. "For all of us."

"Do you want the good news or the bad new first?"

Scott pauses, almost as if waiting for a response. "You'd probably want the bad news first. Then the good news would make it better, right?"

"Well, my mom's still around. She's getting older, but she's still here…sort of. I mean, she remembers me and Kira and Lydia. She also remembers you, but sometimes she forgets that you're gone. It's difficult when we have to," Scott swallows, "remind her."

"We think Ethan's gone. He…he hasn't responded in a while. No one knows if it's because maybe he found a new pack or if things finally caught up to him. I asked Lydia is she felt anything, but…but since you died, she doesn't seem to know anymore. She says she lost her banshee mojo or whatever it was you kept calling it, but I think she just doesn't want to lose anyone else."

"I guess we can talk about Lydia now. You'd be so proud of her, you know. She won that Fields Medal you always went on and on about a few years after graduation. Guess what she called her genius mathematical theorem." Scott pauses, waiting for ten heartbeats before continuing. "The Argent-Stilinksi theorem. Most people name them after themselves, but she named them after you and Allison, so that's kind of unique, right?" Scott chuckles weakly. "What am I saying? You and Allison hated math class in high school. Maybe this is her way of getting revenge on you both."

Scott falls silent again, composing the thoughts in his head. He had always thought they would grow old together, not be trapped in this lengthening bubble. It feels strange talking to Stiles now because of their age difference. While Stiles is forever immortalized as a teenager, Scott's reaching the inevitable start of his mid-life crisis.

Since his best friend has been gone for so long, Scott can no longer imagine what it would be like to talk to an older Stiles. He supposes there would be bigger words, maybe. Perhaps less impromptu flailing, but he isn't sure.

"She never got  _that_  close to anyone again," he murmurs. "After losing Allison and Aiden, it was bad. But after you too? Well, she just lost that kind of faith in things. She's happy with us, I guess. She's part of our family and still in the pack, but she'll always be a little bit alone."

"We're all starting to get gray hair," Scott adds as a minor afterthought, "but you'd probably say hers looks like the moonlight in a lunar eclipse or something weird like that." Scott shakes his head, a sad smile slipping across his thin lips.

"Argent's somewhere still. He and Isaac have grown really close. He's become like a father figure to him. It's good. For both of them. Last Lydia heard from them, they were traveling around France looking for more information on werewolves." Scott taps his clean-shaven chin twice, deep in thought.

"They aren't hunting anymore, thank goodness, because Argent is in his 70s or 80s. I guess one good thing he got from Gerrard was his genes, because he still could probably taze my werewolf ass with that cattle prod. Wolfs bane cane and all."

"So I guess all that's left to talk about is the pack. It's gotten bigger and I'm still the Alpha. Yeah, I'm surprised too. Thankfully, things have slowed down in Beacon Hill, otherwise I'm not sure how much of this I could take. Derek says Beacon Hills has become the beacon it used to be when his mother was the Alpha. Creatures will still cross into our territory, but it's typically to ask for advice or to pass through on their way somewhere else. For once, notoriety is working in our favor, because no one wants to mess with a  _True_  Alpha and his terrifying pack," Scott grins. "We've made a truce with most local hunters and offer sanctuary to any cooperative omegas. But it's still not the same without our  _Spark._ "

"After Coach retired, Liam took up the job as lacrosse coach. That was a twist, but he's managed to control his anger and the kids seem to love him." A faint smile ghosts across Scott's lips. "Unfortunately, he doesn't have the same type of… _talent_  that we did during our years. We haven't won a championship since. They put your picture on the wall, by the way. We're all in the championship photo, but there's something special just for you. I think Coach had something to do with it," Scott shakes his head, laughing under his breath. The sound is strange and breathy in the silent cemetery.

"Kira is doing great. She got certified a while back to be an electrical engineer and now she's the head of her entire department. Shocking, huh?" Scott pauses and chuckles at the poorly worded pun. He probably looks insane, a middle-aged man laughing at a dead boy's gravestone, but no one is around to see.

"Derek is still as," he racks his brain for the human's favorite nickname, " _sourwolf_ -y as ever. He comes and goes now and then, but I suppose that isn't any different than it was in the past. He's…coping," Scott finishes lamely. "A lot of the times, Malia will go with him. They've grown close, which is good since they're technically family. She still misses you, but she's found her own anchor. They're moving on, but it's…healthy," Scott concludes with a definite nod.

"Oh, God. I almost forgot. Peter is still around. They finally let him out of Eichen House and he's still as annoying as ever. At least he's too ancient now to be dangerous. He can't do much more than complain, but still…"

Scott smiles as he reaches his last topic.

"The kids are doing great. It feels so weird talking about them, because Sti is older than you when you…y'know…." Scott trails off, hating the way this tangent has begun. "He's in college now, training to be a forensic scientist. I think it's…I think he wanted to do that after we told him about you. He wants to go solve crimes just like his adopted grandfather. They were really close, you know," Scott falls silent and listens to the sounds around him for a moment. The birds chirping, the insect buzzing. It's all so calm and peaceful and he's glad for the solitude for Stiles. "He was devastated when your dad died."

"He's engaged too, you know. To a red headed math major," Scott grins widely. "Part of me should be concerned for Lydia's sake because of the similarities, but the other part of me can't believe it. It's kind of eerie, in all honesty."

"Allie is graduating high school this year. She's just as brilliant as her brother." The man shakes his head and smiles at the grass. "I wish you could have met them. Sorry I'm going all 'proud parent' on you, but we were really lucky."

Scott falls silent. He can't think of anything left to say. He will always remember his unspoken apologies, but he's starting to believe that they don't really matter anymore, because there isn't anything they can do.

He nods at his best friend's grave and walks back to the car.

* * *

**Year 100**   
  


He remembers it all.

He remembers the jealousy, before he even knew the fickle emotion's name. The ratty tennis shoes and the Batman pencil. The masoleuuums and wooden stakes. A whispered promise to keep them safe. Shared lunches and plush guardians.

He remembers being forced to modify his definition of death and family. Death becomes a cruel harbinger of unhappiness, while family no longer begins and ends with a mother and father. Family is now when lost and lonely individuals finally find something of value in the arms of another.

Family means a new life, but sometimes death wins.

Sometimes the loser has to wait.

Lacrosse balls and jeep keys. Spare inhalers and dumb vampire movies.

No one else understands, because no one is left to remember.

He's all alone now, but only for a little while more.

( _Cya soon, Stiles._ )

Scott has waited for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> How'd you guys like all those parallels and headcanons? Thanks for sticking through the whole thing. Like I said, it was a doozy.


End file.
